Mom is wearing her swim team sweatshirt. If you can believe it, her swim team name is the Brown Beavers. These middle-aged women actually go around in public with that name blaring on their shirts. It’s so awful. Seriously, Mom’s face could have been on milk cartons and cereal boxes. Now she’s going to die with her Brown Beavers sweatshirt on.
I get a paper out of my backpack and write: Cara wuz here. Stop avoiding me. It’s rainy, the worst. Later Christian Slater. It’s not like I want all this credit exactly, but I want Mom to know that someone came to see her. I pause for a moment, and then I write: P.S. Lee’s back.
Ash called on Wednesday to say she saw Lee at CanPharm, the drugstore where Lee and Jed used to work as bike couriers. Actually, what she said was, “Jesus rose again and he’s playing at Drifters on Thursday.” Ash has been obsessed with Lee since grade nine. He looks slightly like the Jesus in paintings: long greasy hair, almond-shaped eyes, skinny but muscular. Still, it’s completely lame to call someone that. The only reason I care about Ash’s update, and think that Mom will, is because Lee and Jed left together on that stupid bike trip to California last year and no one’s heard from him since before Christmas. No phone calls, anyway. I want Dad to hire a PI, but Dad says hunting Jed down is not our job and he’ll come home when he’s ready. Sometime after Mom got sick, Jed’s status in this family went from deadbeat runaway to bohemian hero. I guess it makes Mom and Dad feel better to pretend Jed is bravely living his life to the fullest or something. The truth is he’s a selfish ass.
Because Mom’s asleep, I do the rounds of her room before leaving, tapping each window and the door seven times. It’s just an old habit at this point. It probably doesn’t make a difference, but it can’t do any harm, and now is not the time to really test things. But when I’m done the sevens, I don’t leave. I sit for a while and watch Mom breathe, making sure her chest is moving up and down. When Jed and I were babies, Mom said she did this, too: stood over our cribs and stared at our chests. Until grade two, at least, I made Mom sit on the end of my bed until I fell asleep. I think about that now: that cozy, safe feeling of having her so close by, mixed with the anxiety of knowing she would slip away again once my eyes were closed long enough.
The streetlights come on and the bottoms of Mom’s sheets flood with yellow light. The woman in the next room turns off her TV. I look back at my note and tear off the PS. Maybe it’s cruel to get her hopes up. I shut the heavy blue drapes on the window and squeeze Mom’s blanketed foot on the way out.
On Thursday night, Ash, Lacey, and I sit at a table at the back of Drifters waiting for Freedom Horses, Lee’s new band. I recognize a few other people Jed used to hang out with, but I don’t know any of them well enough to talk to. I always feel idiotic, or at least act that way, around my brother’s friends. I spoke to Lee exactly once last year when he was in our kitchen, stirring some kind of special drug tea. I told him the tea looked like piss. He said, “No problem for me, so long as it’s not.” Then I said the lamest thing in the world. I said, “It’s snot?”
Since the beginning of the school year, Ash has been dressing all 90210 prep: spaghetti straps, chunky high heels, boot-cut jeans. But tonight, for Lee’s sake, she’s wearing last year’s full on hippie-gear: clay beads, bandana, bell-bottoms. Real hippies, like Dad’s girlfriend Shari, don’t use deodorant or cut their hair. Ash, on the other hand, is pretty much the vainest person I know. Even now she’s staring at her reflection in the blacktopped table.
When Freedom Horses come on, everyone goes nuts. A few kids bounce around and bash into each other near the stage like they’re too excited to stay contained within their own bodies. I normally can’t stand live music if I don’t know the songs, but this is OK. Along with the usual stuff, Freedom Horses has a trumpet, a trombone, and tambourines. Lee just plays guitar. He looks more skinny and bearded than I remember him, and his hair is knotted into a half ponytail, like a girl’s. I glance at Ash, but she’s in some fake sort of trance, biting her lower lip and shaking her hair to the music.
When the first set is done, a waiter not much older than us asks what we’re having.
“Just draft for me,” Ash says.
“And you two?”
“Kahlua?” Lacey sits up tall in her chair.
“Kahlua,” the guy repeats. “Like a shot, or . . . ?”
“Um, just like a glass?” She glances at Ash. Lacey cuts her hair identical to Ash and went on the pill the exact same day, though neither of them is actually screwing anyone. Ash blew Stu Maynard once in her basement, but they didn’t go all the way. And I’m pretty sure that even I’ve fooled around more than Lacey has. I took my shirt off for a private school guy at a party three weeks ago and probably would have gone further, but then he barfed up, like, two litres of vodka and OJ.
The waiter guy looks from Lacey to Ash. It’s easy to see what’s going on here. He knows we’re underage, but he thinks Ash is hot. Her hotness can be useful. “A glass of Kahlua,” he repeats. “Look, I can’t serve that, exactly.”
“No problem.” Ash sticks out her chin and smiles, showing off her shiny white teeth. “We’ll all have draft.”
When the waiter leaves, I swear Lacey’s about to cry from embarrassment. She starts apologizing and Ash goes, “Being sorry is not really the point.” I’m hardly listening, though, because the set’s over and Lee is hopping down from the stage. A girl with thick dreads grabs him around the waist, and they have this drawn out, slow-dancey hug. If Ash weren’t so mesmerized by her own lecture, she’d see that Lee probably has a girlfriend.
As Lee makes his way to the bar, I get down from my stool. “I’m going to talk to him.”
Ash narrows her eyes at me. “You’re just going to go up to him?”
“Yep.”
The courage that got me out of my chair drains completely as I cross the room. I know Ash and Lacey are staring. I squeeze next to Lee, close enough to feel heat coming off his skin. My heart feels like it will gallop right out of my chest, but I cross my arms all casual and say, “So. You’re back.”
He turns toward me and pulls a cigarette from behind his ear. “What?”
“Unless you have an evil twin.”
He packs the smoke on top of the bar. “Who are you again?”
“Jed Ketchum’s sister.”
“Right on.”
I don’t think he recognizes me. I’m always remembering people who don’t remember me. “How is he?”
Lee squints out at the crowd. “Jed’s Jed.”
I don’t think anyone would ever describe me as Cara’s Cara. That wouldn’t mean anything. For Jed, it’s obvious. Jed just does his thing, which is whatever he wants. Fuck other people’s feelings. If he hurts anyone doing his thing, he basically thinks it’s their problem for not being as freewheeling and independent as he is. He loves being this way, considers it a special gift. “Do you know how to get ahold of him?” I ask.
“Not really, man.”
“So you don’t have a number or anything?”
“No, man, I don’t.”
I wish he’d stop calling me man. I bet he wouldn’t call Ash man. I should have brought her over. He glances at the stage again like he’s looking for an excuse to blow off this conversation.
“Well, is he alive at least?”
“Last I heard.”
“Good for him,” I say. “His mom’s dying.”
Lee looks hard at me for a second like he’s trying to decide if someone would joke about this. The light from behind the bar shows ridges of scarred skin at the sides of his face. I bet if I touched his cheekbone, it would feel like zucchini peel. He slides one hand under his armpit and lets out a beery sigh. I think how much Ash would want that beer breath all over her face. “You want a drink?”
I guess this is his way of saying sorry. Sorry for being a jerk, or sorry for my mom dying. “I’ll have a bottle of draft,” I say.
“A bottle of draft?” He tilts his head.
“If that
’s OK.”
“Whatever you say.” Lee holds up an empty bottle and flashes two fingers at the bartender. I really want to look back at Ash.
“Your brother and I split ways in San Luis Obispo,” he says. “We ran out of cash, but you know Jed.”
“Did he make it to California?”
“That’s where SLO’s at.”
Jed made it. Mom would probably like that.
Lee motions for a pen from the girl behind the bar. When she hands it to him, I can tell from her face that she’s thinking: Of all the chicks in here, why would you want her number? He slides me the pen and the back of a coaster. “I’ll tell you if I hear anything. I’m just saying that dude’s pretty nomadic, so I probably won’t.” I write down my number and take my beer. “Thanks.”
Back at the table, Ash is losing her shit wanting to know what we talked about and whether Lee paid for my beer. I light a cigarette, squint, and tell her that Jed and Lee split ways in SLO, and that’s all I wanted to know from the guy. I love that she doesn’t know where SLO is, but she doesn’t ask.
I’m not tired when I get home from the Freedom Horses gig, so I pour myself a bowl of cereal. Somehow I manage to knock it off the counter, and Dad comes running in like there’s a major emergency, practically giving me a heart attack. Dad stays here with me Sunday to Wednesday, but he goes back to Shari, the twins, and his job at the outdoor store on weekends. I get to stay here because everyone agreed that would be least “disruptive.” Dad and Shari are planning a wedding, but it’s on hold right now, presumably until Mom dies.
“Doing a little drinking tonight, Care Bear?” He looks pleased with himself for knowing this and it annoys me. “A school night?”
“No. I was actually seeing a band.”
“Uh huh. Where?”
“Don’t worry about it. You won’t know the place.”
He bends down to the floor and starts picking up Cheerios. “You know, your mother and I used to go out lots around here.”
“Great.”
“Superb little bar scene back in the seventies. Jed was born because of a date at that little place on— ”
“Ballantyne’s. Please Dad, I know.” I hold up my hand. I just can’t think of Mom right now without seeing her frozen turkey hands. I don’t need to think of frozen turkey sex.
“There was a rainstorm that night.”
I’ve heard the story before, pictured the scene a thousand times. I know the world must have been as bright then as it is now, all the same colours and everything, but when I imagine Mom and Dad in the seventies, all I can see is faded beiges, rusts, and browns, like old furniture. There’s this great photo of Mom in her freshman yearbook from 1975 with her hair all feathered; she’s standing next to some tall guy in front of a tree of dripping tinsel and the text along the bottom says “Seasons Greetings Athletes!” She’s wide-eyed and seems surprised at being caught by the camera, but happy, too. Happy and surprised is not a combo I’m used to seeing on Mom’s face.
Dad stands up, wipes the fallen Cheerios into the sink, and pours me a new bowl. I know what Dad looked like at that same age because of the dumb dog show he was on. He had thicker hair and was way fitter in his twenties, but I guess people still think he’s sort of good looking, or at least a teacher told me that once. Still, his acting career is pretty much in the toilet. In the last two years he’s been in one yogurt drink commercial and one scene in a show that got cancelled before it even aired. I guess neither Mom or Dad really became the people they thought they would.
“I know the whole story,” I say. “How it was raining and you made Mom invite you in. I bet she wishes it never happened.”
Dad leans against the counter. I can tell he’s staring at me, but I don’t look at his face. “Is that what you think?”
“I don’t know. Probably.”
“Well, I’m not sure that’s exactly how she’d feel.”
“Really? You cheated on her.” Mom’s never exactly said that to me, but I’m pretty sure it’s true. This time I look at Dad. He’s staring up at the track lights with tired, sagging eyes. He could use some sleep instead of staying up spying on me.
“I knew this was coming.”
I think about Mom listening to rainstorms alone in her tiny St. Barf’s room. A crackle of anger shudders up my spine. “So what’s your answer then?”
“I never wanted it to end up that way. Trust me.”
“What, you got forced into cheating?”
Dad’s eyelids flutter when he closes them. “Don’t try to hurt me now, Cara. It won’t change anything.”
“All I’m saying is that if I were Mom, and I could go back in time, I’d stay home for every rainstorm forever.”
“Well, then, you’d never exist.” Dad never gets mad, and it’s a little bit exciting to hear the edge in his voice. The reality is, if it weren’t for that rainstorm night, it’s Jed who wouldn’t exist. I only exist because of Jed. If Mom hadn’t gotten pregnant and ended up having Jed because of that night, I seriously doubt Mom and Dad would have become a real couple. She’s a much better person than him when you think about it.
“Maybe that would be best for everyone,” I say. “Because that way you could just be at Shari’s right now, talking all you want about the stupid rain or your wedding, and there wouldn’t be the hassle of having to think about me.”
I look over at him, but he’s smiling and shaking his head. “Shut up, Cara.”
A week after the Freedom Horses thing, Lee still hasn’t called. I’m sure he forgot to even think about me. I consider looking up his number, but I don’t want to have some humiliating conversation where I need to explain who I am and what I want all over again. Instead, I start going to CanPharm after school.
I see Lee on my fourth visit, unlocking his lime-green bike outside. He gives me a funny smile when I come out the automatic doors like he was expecting to see me. “Little Ketchum.”
I try to act like this is all very surprising. “Oh, you work here?”
He ignores my question and looks down at my plastic shopping bag. “Get anything good?”
“Chapstick.”
“Can I have some?”
“Chapstick?”
“That’s what we’re talking about, right?”
When he ties his hair back into a ponytail, I can see the sweat stains in his armpits. Out of nowhere I have an urge to put my mouth on them. It’s like getting an urge to throw yourself off a balcony when you’re up really high. You know you won’t really do it, but the idea is just there poking at you over and over. I hand over the Chapstick.
“So I think Jed’s staying with a woman,” Lee says. “Down in LA.”
“What woman?”
“Her name’s P.” He wheels the Chapstick all the way up and sniffs the waxy finger.
“P?”
“Don’t ask me. I have no idea what it stands for. What is this? Cherry?”
“I don’t know.”
“She’s older,” Lee continues. “Pretty old, actually.”
“How old?”
“Thirty-five, maybe? She liked Jed a lot.”
I’m not really sure where to go with this information. LA is obviously huge, and P can be the start of a million names. But I just stand there, hoping this is the beginning of a longer story.
“She worked at this bar in SLO. I could probably find the number.” He smears on the Chapstick and smacks his lips together.
“OK.”
“If you want to wait, I should be done this delivery in half an hour.”
“Sure. Yeah.”
I feel a little bad because I was supposed to go to St. Barf’s, but waiting for Lee for info is probably better for Mom in the long run.
While I’m looking at my French homework on a bench outside, I hear a car door slam, followed by the sound of jangling keys and high heels on concrete. My automatic feeling is that it’s Mom. When I look up, there’s just a twentyish woman crossing the sidewalk. She pushes her sun
glasses into her hair and jangles her way into the pharmacy. The slam and click-clack of groceries coming home, of getting picked up from somewhere — those aren’t Mom’s sounds anymore. They won’t ever be again. All of that is already gone.
We don’t talk on the walk to Lee’s place. He pushes his bike ahead of me and whistles to himself like he’s alone. He walks fast, and I need to take a double step every few seconds. I fantasize about Ash running into the two of us together. Sure, she’d act pouty and betrayed all week, but it would be worth it.
Lee lives a few blocks from our old house on a dark, leafy street of mostly duplexes. It’s warm for the end of September and people are still acting summery. I can smell the smoke from a backyard grill, and kids play on driveways while their parents garden or whatever out front. I think of Mom’s sad planters on our balcony. Also how I’m an asshole because I haven’t done a thing with her plants since she left for St. Barf’s.
“I used to live near here,” I say to Lee.
He doesn’t care, doesn’t turn around.
There’s never much reason to ever come back to this neighbourhood, even though I think about our old house pretty often. When I’m trying to calm myself down, sometimes I close my eyes and walk through the house room by room, trying to remember all the little details, like the exact number of cupboards and drawers in the kitchen and what we kept inside each. Sometimes I call our old number. I know the number probably belongs to someone else now in some entirely other place, but no one ever picks up, and I like imagining the ring filling up the old rooms, searching for us.
When we get to Lee’s house, he rolls his bike up the driveway to the back gate. I stand on the sidewalk, not sure whether to follow or wait for him to find the phone number for me. He turns and looks at me. “Coming?”
Catch My Drift Page 24