by Lesley Crewe
She reaches out to hold my hand. “Yes, you’re right. It just upsets me that your talent is being wasted.”
“I don’t know what my talent is yet.”
“You produced the number one hit show in Canada.”
“I produced it because someone told me to.”
“Okay, I won’t badger you.” She proceeds to size up the menu. “How about a pulled pork sandwich.”
“I refuse to eat Wilbur.”
“That’s hogwash. Get it? Hogwash!” She looks behind me with surprise. “Hey, look who just walked in. Steve! Steve!”
I look over my shoulder in time to see Steve approaching us while his date stands by the door.
“Fancy seeing you guys here,” he laughs. “How are you, sis? Chloe?”
“Good,” I say.
“Who’s that?” Amanda asks. “An art patron trying to whittle down the price of a painting?”
“No, just a friend.”
“I thought you were working in advertising.”
“Advertising? Chloe, I told you he worked at an art gallery.”
“Oh, yes, I forgot.” I don’t bother looking at him.
“Well, good to see you two. I better shove off.”
“Come for supper next week. Bring your friend.”
He waves, goes back to the woman and escorts her out the door immediately.
“Why are they leaving? That’s strange.” Amanda shakes her head. “I wish he’d settle down. He’s not getting any younger.”
I’ve lost my appetite.
When my doorbell rings later that afternoon I know it’s him. I open the door.
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“Can I come in? It’s a little chilly out here.”
I walk down the hallway to the kitchen Steve hates and lean against the sink. At least he looks ashamed. “Why did you lie?”
“Your opinion of me means a lot.”
“Why is what I think important?”
“I care about you, but you don’t take me seriously.”
“Are you still an escort?”
“Basically.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“I never claimed to be otherwise.”
“So what now?”
“I’m lonely. I thought maybe you were too.”
“So you thought we could comfort each other in bed, because that’s what you know.”
“See? You just blurt out the truth all the time. I’ve never had anyone tell me the truth before.”
“Get out.”
“Chloe—”
I grab a dinner plate and smash it against the wall. “Get out! I’ve been lonely all my life. I’m not going to soothe that away having mindless sex with you. I already told you. You helped me and I’m grateful. I don’t mind being your friend, but I can’t do this. If you want to love someone, Steve, love yourself. That’s who you need to pay attention to.”
Gramps appears at my front door. “What’s going on in here? Are you all right?”
“Everything’s fine. My friend is just leaving.”
Steve takes two steps closer and stands in front of me. “I’m glad I met you, Chloe Sparrow.” He kisses my cheek and then turns to leave. As he passes Dad’s study door, it slams shut. Steve jumps and lets out a yelp before he hurries down the hall and past Gramps.
“Nut case,” Gramps mutters before he comes into the kitchen and holds his arms out. I walk into them.
“Is this a good thing or a bad thing?”
“It’s a thing thing.”
“That clears that up.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
My first day at the new job is a disaster. The patients hate me because I can’t find them on the computer and their files are still in deep piles on the floor, so they have to wait while I search for the one I need. None of these miserable people say anything about it to Dexter. They think it’s cute that he’s disorganized and in a flap, but they give me an earful. How can he stand all the doom and gloom that floats in the air here?
The minute I start to make some progress organizing the office, the phone rings or some other misery guts walks in and I have to pretend I like them.
“Good morning.”
“Is it?” Some goth girl who can barely summon the energy to chew her gum looks at me with contempt.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“Would I be here talking to you if I didn’t?”
“Your name?”
“Wiccan.”
“The name your parents call you?”
“Bitch, slut, whore…”
“That’s how your parents talk to you? That’s awful.”
“You’re calling my parents awful? Are you some kind of fucking social worker?”
There’s another patient putting on his coat to leave. He looks very uncomfortable with this exchange.
“I apologize. May I have your birth name, please?”
“Tinkerbell Crawley.”
I get a case of the giggles. Dexter’s door opens. “Oh, hi, Tinker. Come on in.”
We break for lunch at noon. Dexter pokes his head out. “I made some tuna sandwiches this morning. Want to share them with me?”
We settle down in his office. I supply the juice, yogurt, fruit, and éclairs.
“How are you making out?”
“It’s slow going. I’ll have to come in here on a weekend and organize these files so your patients stop glaring at me.”
“Do they all glare at you?”
“I’m not being paranoid! Your patients have issues.”
“Most people do.”
I reach for another half of a sandwich. “Take Tinkerbell. Who on earth names their child Tinkerbell?”
“I knew a Marilyn Munro once, and the poor girl was no prize. Parents make lots of mistakes. My parents hounded me for years to be a lawyer like my dad, but I always wanted to be a firefighter.”
“When I was five I told my mother I wanted to be a ballerina, and she said that it wasn’t a practical occupation.”
“She said that to a five-year-old?”
“When I was ten I wanted to be a vet…I’d forgotten that.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I wasn’t allowed a pet, so it seemed pointless.”
“What did your parents want you to be?”
“A person who was educated and dedicated, who contributed to the betterment of society.”
“I hate to tell you, but society will always be screwed up, with or without you. It’s not your personal responsibility to save the world.”
I stand up. “I have to go.”
“Where?”
“To my desk.”
Halfway out the door, I turn back. “Speaking of desks, can your budget handle a few green plants, a nameplate, a couple of gallons of paint, and a rug?”
“Sure, but painting walls and ceilings are not in your job description.”
“Do you want to be taken seriously or not? If this place looks like a dump, you’ll never get anywhere in this world. And on that note, get yourself a few new shirts and ties and iron your pants.”
“Aye-aye, Captain.”
I’m a great one to talk. I go to Winners to buy myself professional clothes after work. The only secretaries I know are Mr. Gardner’s old bitch and James Bond’s Miss Moneypenny, so I come home with a bunch of skirts and cardigans. My hair is longer now and still horrific, so I pull it all back and make a very tiny bun. It looks ridiculous, but I feel like a secretary. To complete the transformation I buy sensible shoes. When I look in the mirror, Mom looks back at me.
I miss her.
Every week I promise myself I won’t watch The Single Guy and every week I do, usually while
snivelling and eating liquorice in my bed. Tonight he kicks off Lizette. I knew he would, of course, but no one else saw it coming.
She’s furious and actually shoves Austin backwards before she gets in the limo. He steadies himself and looks forlorn.
Lizette points her finger at him. “Tu es complètement débile!” which roughly means you’re a complete moron.
To which Austin replies, “Je suis désolé.” I’m sorry.
“Casse-toi, Englishman!” I believe that’s piss off, Englishman.
Then she slams the door in his face. He stands there and takes it.
Amanda texts me. Did you watch it?
I text back. No. What happened?
He kicked off Lizette! None of us could believe it.
I know! TTYL.
Because I have nothing else to do with my life, Dexter’s office becomes my drug of choice. It takes me an entire weekend to paint the walls in bright cheerful colours. Dexter shows up to help, but he’s lousy at it and gets in my way so I send him home.
The super allows me to put up Dexter’s nameplate on the outside of his office and beside the front door going into the building. I scatter the green plants, put an area rug between the chairs, hang wooden blinds, and tack up modern artwork. The place looks like it came out of a magazine. The last thing I do is take Dexter’s diplomas and have them professionally framed to hang in his office.
All the files are filed, my desk is spotless, and there’s a coffee machine for the patients. I have a toaster oven in a small supply room out back, where I spoon pre-mixed chocolate chip cookie dough on the tray and make six cookies at a time, putting each of them in its own wax paper sleeve and then in a wicker basket on the coffee table I bought for thirty dollars. The sight and smell when people come in is comforting. When I can keep Dexter from eating all of them.
Since I’ve started working here, Dexter’s clients have doubled—no doubt through word-of-mouth about how great the office is. I’m sure they like Dexter too, but if he’d stayed in his rat’s nest it wouldn’t matter how great a psychiatrist he is, no one would’ve stayed to find out.
Dexter insists on taking me to dinner to thank me for my hard work. He wants to go somewhere fancy, but I choose a local Chinese restaurant. We both order the number three.
“When you’re not toiling away in my doctor cave, what are you up to?”
“Nothing.”
“You do nothing? I didn’t think that was possible.”
“I’ve kind of become an extra member of a detective agency called Nosy Parkers. I’ve made up a list of prices for different jobs because gas is expensive and I don’t want it coming out of Aunt Ollie’s or Agatha’s pocket.”
“Did you say a…detective agency?”
“It’s my aunt and her friend doing favours for the neighbours. It keeps them from wasting away on a couch in front of the television.”
“But what you do for yourself? What are your hobbies?”
“Don’t have any, unless you consider wrestling with kittens a sport.”
Our plates of fried rice, chow mein, chicken balls, and egg rolls show up. Dexter eats with chopsticks. I’m a fork kind of gal.
“I was talking to Uncle Matthew the other day and your name came up. He was very surprised to find out you work for me. He actually said it was beneath you.”
My fork stabs the air. “What does that mean? Who decides which job is more important than any other job? The world puts too much emphasis on status. Now that I’m allowing myself sometimes to think about my old job at the CBC, I realize there were days when I hated it. The daily push to be better, trying to do more, striving for a bigger viewing audience—it’s numbing after a while.”
“Well, I very much appreciate what you’ve done for me. I owe you.”
“It’s nothing.”
He stares me down. “But for me, it’s made all the difference in the world. I didn’t feel like a psychiatrist until you created the illusion that I was and I started to believe it myself. That’s a wonderful gift.”
Lying in bed that night, I think about what Dexter said. I look around. This is the room of an unhappy teenager. I’m now an unhappy adult, but I’m an unhappy adult with way better taste than I did when I was fifteen. I’m going to paint my room.
I’m on my sixth coat of grey primer. My lesson for today is, don’t ever paint walls black. My arms are like noodles, so I go next door to sit for a minute and give my pussycats a cuddle. They are vacationing at Aunt Ollie’s cat camp while the painting is being done.
Gramps, Aunt Ollie, and Agatha are around the kitchen table. I’m kissing kittens as I join them. “What’s going on?”
“My car went back in for repairs,” Agatha says. “Since you’re busy painting, I’m trying to convince the old goat here to take us to our job today.”
“And Dad is being a pain about it, as usual,” Aunt Ollie frowns.
“Your car is obviously a lemon. Get a new one,” he says.
“I may look like I’m made of money, but I’m not.”
“No, I wouldn’t say that.”
“Gramps!” I turn to Aunt Ollie. “I’ll take you. I need a break anyway.”
“Thanks for nothing, Dad.”
“Listen here, I’m off to court someone new. I have to be on my A game.”
“You’re an F as far as I’m concerned,” Agatha says.
“Don’t be so damn touchy, woman.” He gets up and leaves the kitchen. “I’m surrounded by sourpusses. Speaking of pusses, where’s Bobby? Come here, boy.”
Bobby the dog-cat streaks after him.
An hour later we’re parked on a quiet street with the sun streaming through the window. Despite the chill in the air, the sun is hot on the windshield—spring isn’t far now. It’s still March, but the patches of grass get larger every day.
“So what’s the plan?”
“We have to take a picture of someone’s backyard. Our client thinks her brother is stealing stuff out of her garage when she’s not home,” Aunt Ollie says.
“And this stuff would be…in a backyard?”
“It’s a snow blower and a snowmobile, so yes.”
“Why doesn’t she just take the picture herself?”
Agatha gives me an annoyed look. “She’s elderly.”
Should I say it? Better not.
“We’re wasting time. You stay in the car, and Ollie and I will be right back.”
“Why can’t I go?”
“Two old ladies aren’t noticeable. Someone might give you a second look.”
I suppose I’ll take that as a compliment. It’s only after they’ve disappeared up the street that I wonder what an elderly woman wants with a snow blower and a snowmobile anyway.
Five minutes go by, and then ten. Does it take ten minutes to snap a picture? I’m not sure what to do. They told me to wait here and Agatha will give me heck if I don’t follow instructions. But when fifteen minutes have gone by I have no choice. I jump out of the car and head off in their direction. It suddenly dawns on me that I don’t have the address—they could be in any one of backyards on this street.
I rush down one driveway, come back to the street, and then rush down another driveway, over and over, hoping no one is watching out their window. There’s no sign of them. This is ridiculous. Where are they? I’m almost at the end of the block and a bit panicked when I hear a small voice to my right. It’s coming from behind the house I’m standing in front of. It doesn’t look like anyone’s home, but I keep my voice down just in case.
“Aunt Ollie? Agatha?”
Again I hear a faint whisper. “Over here.”
As I round the corner I see the two of them pressed up against the inside fence. “What are you doing? You not supposed to be in the yard!”
They look scared to death.
“Don’t
worry, I’m coming!”
They shake their heads, but undaunted I run through the gate to rescue them—from what, I don’t know—until I come face to face with an enormous bulldog growling deep in his throat, so deep I didn’t hear him until now. I leap over to my partners in crime and the three of us huddle together as he snarls and drools at us.
We whisper without moving our lips. “Why are you in here?”
“It’s Ollie’s fault.”
“It is not. You wanted a closer picture.”
“I asked you if there were any dogs. You said no.”
“I couldn’t see him under the back deck.”
“Does it really matter now? Be quiet so I can think.”
“I wish this dog would go to sleep and let us pass.”
“That’s it? That’s the plan?” Agatha says.
Aunt Ollie springs to my defence. “Have you got a better one?”
The dog gets closer and more menacing with each passing minute. This wish is not working! What did I do wrong? “I wish this dog would...”
“Drop dead!” Agatha hisses.
I know I have to do something—and then I have it. Carefully, I take my cellphone out of my pocket and call Austin’s cell. Please take the call. Please.
“Hello? Chloe?”
“Austin, I need your help.”
The dog gets upset and starts to charge us and then runs around in circles, still growling.
“What’s wrong?”
“We’re being held hostage by a very scary bulldog. He’s going to attack any minute. What should I do?”
“Where are you?”
“Agatha, what’s the house number?”
“How’s that going to—”
“Shut up and give it to me!”
She does, and I give it to Austin. He says, “I’ll be right there.”
I honestly didn’t mean for him to come to the house. I thought he might talk me through a few strategies for calming the animal down, but now that I know he’s coming, I want to weep with relief.
“Austin’s coming.”
“The nice vet you were mad at?” Aunt Ollie whispers.
“Yes!” I say that too loud and now the dog starts to snap his teeth. “Oh God.”