Here’s how it went. First I put big hot rollers all over Debbie’s head, transforming her black curly hair into soft waves framing her face, which looks terrific now with her black and red minidress, and those shiny silver hoops in her ears. Following the hair session, we had a big debate over Debbie’s glasses. I wanted her to leave them off—I mean, she’s got these gorgeous brown eyes with long dark lashes. So she gave it a shot, but ended up bumping into furniture and doors. Honestly, I had to laugh—Debbie literally can’t see two feet in front of her. So finally she gave up. “If I have to choose between looking sensible or looking like a fool, I’ll pick sensible every time,” she said, as she picked the granny glasses off the bureau and fitted them back on her face.
Once we had Debbie sorted out, I sat in front of the mirror while she ironed my hair. Took forever, but now it’s flat and shiny down my back, held in place with a pink satin band that matches my dress. I’m glad my hair looks okay because, to be honest, I’m not quite sure about this new dress. It’s long, down to my ankles, and made of this soft slinky material with pink and white cabbage roses all over it. The roses are enormous and look ridiculous, I think. Plus the whole thing is a tad too tight—I actually feel that if I take a deep breath, I’ll burst a seam. Aunt Kay and I picked it up at Ayre’s last Saturday and the deciding factor seemed to be that the dress was half-price. Aunt Kay kept saying it was adorable, but I don’t know about that. Anyway, it’s definitely better than my Christmas dress with its velvet ribbons and long sleeves.
Debbie says the pink colour suits me and to stop worrying about it. (She’s only trying to make me feel better, I know it.) At least my skin is clear, no breakouts at the moment, thank God. And with blush on my cheeks, gloss on my lips, and Mom’s pearl studs in my ears, my face is definitely brighter than usual. If only I didn’t look like a length of sausage in this dress, I might feel more relaxed.
“Ready?” Debbie picks up her white purse from my bed.
“I guess.” My stomach is ping-ponging with nerves. “Too late to turn back now.”
She looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “Why would you even want to turn back? This is the St. Matthew’s spring dance, remember? We’re going to have a ball!” She puts one arm around Beth-Ann’s shoulders and heads through the door. “Sometimes,” she says to her, “I think there’s something wrong with your sister.”
I take a deep breath and follow them down the hall, toward the sound of male voices in the living room.
“Hi, guys!” Debbie’s voice ahead of me is bright and chirpy.
“Hi!” the two of them say at the same time.
“Looking good, Deb,” I hear Doug say as I enter the living room. Or almost enter. I hang back by the doorway, clutching my purse.
“Hi, Doug. Hi, John.”
The two of them are sitting on either end of the sofa, long bony knees sticking up from the cushions like teepees. They look kind of cute, though, with their jackets and ties, and their long wavy hair.
“Hi, Maureen,” says Doug.
“Hi, Maureen,” echoes John. His voice cracks slightly but there’s a crooked grin on his face, and his eyes are as deep and blue as the ocean off Signal Hill. I smile bravely, still stuck to the door frame, my insides quivering like a big bowl of Jell-O. Oh my God, this is excruciating. I’m afraid I’m going to throw up.
Debbie has plunked herself down in the chair by the sofa, already into a big animated chat with Doug. How does she do that? It’s not fair, is it? Thank God for Dad, sitting in his chair by the fireplace. “Honey, you look great,” he says to me. “Come over and sit down. The boys and I were just talking a bit of hockey. Don’t get much opportunity to do that in this house.” He winks at the boys, who grin back, already hooked into Dad’s easy way.
I inch away from the door. But where do I sit? Dad’s in his chair, Debbie’s in Mom’s spot on the other side of the fireplace, and Beth-Ann’s just scampered into the wicker chair by the front door. The only available location is on that sofa, in the empty space between Doug and John.
Cripes.
Carefully and with complete concentration, I mince my way around the coffee table, acutely aware of the length of my dress, the tightness of my waistband, and the high clunky heels of my sandals. My total focus is on sucking in my stomach, keeping my head up, placing one foot in front of the other.
Then it happens.
My big toe snags the hem and in a single breath I’m catapulted forward like a cannonball. It all happens so fast, but in some strange way I see it in slow motion too. My two arms cartwheeling crazily, the sickening sound of ripping fabric. I crash into John’s knees, crumpling to the floor in a pink and white heap.
Everyone jumps to their feet in a total panic, shouting and hollering.
“Oh my God, are you okay?”
“Maureen? Speak to me!”
“I don’t see any blood—I hope she didn’t hit her head!”
I’m balled up between table and sofa, paralyzed, mortified, wishing the floor would open wide and swallow me down forever. I know I’m not hurt, but how could I be so stupid?
Then I feel two big strong arms lifting me up, pulling me to my feet. My eyes are clenched closed and I’m hoping this is Dad, but instinctively I know it’s not. I’m standing now, and there’s someone holding me close and I’ve no choice but to open my eyes, so I do. It’s John’s face looking down at me, all concerned and anxious. “Did you hurt yourself?” he asks, as he eases me down on the sofa.
“No—no, I’m fine—I think,” I stammer, as I try to smooth down my dress, fix my hair, figure out this disaster. My pink hairband is hanging around my neck and, hurriedly, I straighten it back in place. This is absolutely the most embarrassing moment of my entire life. John must think I’m a total idiot. He must wish he’d never invited me.
“Maureen, you sure you’re okay? You didn’t damage your dress or anything?” This from Dad, as he settles back down in his armchair.
A new horror rises inside me. I know I heard something tear. What if I’ve ruined my dress? There’s nothing else I can wear!
“Hmmm.” Debbie’s tone is dry. “The dress looks okay. Maybe it’s the hem. Let me take a look.”
She glides over, sits down gracefully on the coffee table, inspecting the bottom of my dress. Why couldn’t I do that? How did she get to be so calm? “Yup. Hem is ripped. Nothing a few quick stitches can’t fix, though. Beth-Ann, run and get me the sewing kit, will you, please?”
Then a giggle burbles up the wicker chair. “That was funny, Reenie,” says Beth-Ann. “You looked funny falling down.”
A tiny smile tugs up one side of my mouth.
“Yes,” says Debbie, her voice tinged with sarcasm. “Hard to believe this is the same girl who danced a solo in the recital last night!”
Dad throws back his head and laughs then, the rich, relaxed sound filling the room, shattering the awkwardness. On either side of me, I can feel Doug and John just holding on, trying not to burst. “Go ahead.” I shake my head ruefully. “Don’t hold back on my account.”
Then everyone’s laughing—at me and my polished grand entrance. Debbie leans over, whispers in my ear, “Nice job, Karen Kain. Way to make a good first impression.” I giggle self-consciously. What else can I do? My first choice—running away—is not a great option when you’re wrapped like a Japanese geisha.
So Beth-Ann finds the sewing box and Debbie takes the hem in her lap and I sit there like the Queen of Sheba, getting my dress all fixed up.
“Sorry about all this.” I look around sheepishly.
“Hey, don’t worry about it,” says John, in a soft voice. Then the next thing I know his warm hand is on top of mine. Cripes, he’s holding my hand! The hand is clammy, which feels gawky and weird, and I’m really not sure what to do.
Of course, Detective Debbie misses none
of this—the two clasped hands are right in front of her face as she’s sewing. She doesn’t look up or skip a beat, but she’s grinning widely. Then she snaps the thread and puts the needle back in the box. “Bit of a patch-up job, but it’ll do. We better get going now. Doug, is your father outside in the car?”
“Oh no, your father’s been waiting all this time!” I say, horrified, using the opening to pull my hand away fast and jump up. Whew! That’s a relief.
Doug nods. “It’s okay, he doesn’t mind. He’s probably just listening to the news, anyway.”
“Well, he must be a very patient man.” Dad stands up. “But we best not keep him waiting any longer. Now, what time will my daughter be home?”
Oh please, is this necessary?
“The dance is over at eleven-thirty, Mr. O’Neill,” says John. “My father is going to pick us up and drive us home.”
“Sounds good. I’ll be waiting up. Now have fun, kids. And Maureen . . .”
“Yes, Dad?”
“Watch your step!”
Of course they all roar laughing again. Well, so what? I certainly did a fine job breaking the ice, didn’t I? And without breaking any bones either. We clatter out the front door, and this time I’m pretty careful to lift my long dress as I’m going down the steps.
“That was embarrassing,” I say to John beside me. Need to say something, I guess.
“Hey, it’s no big deal.”
He holds the car door open and I clamber into the back, wedged in tightly between Debbie and John. I don’t say much, just smile and giggle as Debbie chats with Doug and his father in the front seat. The jitters in my stomach have nearly disappeared, when the next thing I know, John’s hand is stealing over mine again, his big fingers slipping through my smaller ones. But his hand isn’t sweaty anymore, now it feels all firm and confident, like he’s right in charge of the situation. Suddenly I don’t mind one little bit, because it feels kind of nice. I’m thinking that maybe this dance will be fun after all!
* * * * *
Hours later I’m lying in the dark of my bedroom, eyes open wide in the inky blackness. I’m smiling like a moron—in my room all by myself—just thinking back over the events of the evening. The big round clock by my bed says 2:15 a.m. but I’m nowhere near falling asleep. I’m overtired, overexcited—and I don’t want to fall asleep because I don’t want this feeling to end.
I savour the images of the night like long licks on a lollipop. The four of us leaning over the table in the darkened gym, laughing like fools as Doug told the story of his chemistry experiment gone crazy and the explosion that sent everyone running. John asking about my ballet recital—he actually seemed interested. Then I asked about his track and field meet and heard how he came second in the long-distance run. It was kind of cool, really, after a while it wasn’t so hard to talk to him. And whenever we ran out of ideas for conversation, Debbie was right there to keep it all going. Seriously, that girl is amazing.
Then the end of the night—dancing to “Stairway to Heaven.” Honestly, that song just goes on and on forever. Waltzing in slow circles for ages, my cheek brushing against his tweed jacket.
Driving home, I felt drowsy and content with John in the front seat chatting to his dad and Debbie offering the occasional remark. When we got to my house, John jumped out and walked me to the door. “I had a great time,” he said. “Thanks for coming.”
“I had a great time too. Thanks for asking me.”
He leaned down and kissed me quickly—soft lips light on soft lips—pulled back, smiled, and was gone. I slipped inside the house, heart pounding, embarrassed, thrilled. Leaning back against the door, I closed my eyes and breathed out slowly. Couldn’t even begin to describe the feelings inside me.
Lying in bed, snuggled deep into my pillow, exhaustion finally overpowers me. Sliding toward sleep, my thoughts drift toward Mom, lying in a hospital bed on the other side of town. My very first dance and she missed it. If only she had been here, to see me dressed up, and meet the first guy to ever ask me out. If only Gran had been here too.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
IT’S THE END OF May and there’s nothing to look forward to except a mountain of work. The spring dance and ballet recital are history, and exams are staring me in the face. Piled on top of this is the school concert in early June, which only means extra band and choir practices squeezed into time meant for studying. But you know what? It’s like this every single year. You can hardly even think about summer holidays with all this stress building in your brain like a kettle on boil.
This is my gripe on a Thursday afternoon as I rush out of school into a cold spring day, barely noticing the rain and fog smothering everything in grey. I’m in a huge hurry to get Beth-Ann over to Aunt Kay’s, and then rush back to school. There’s a math tutorial at 3:30 and I’ve got a list of questions.
I stop on the front steps of the school, pulling up the hood on Beth-Ann’s yellow rain jacket and tying the strings beneath her chin, when she points a chubby finger over my shoulder. “Look, Reenie, that’s Daddy over there!”
Sure enough, the big Pontiac is pulled up to the curb, Dad grinning at us through the windshield. Immediately alarm bells go off in my head. This is very strange, Dad never picks us up. Is it Mom? Is she all right? But Dad wouldn’t be smiling like that if anything was wrong. Maybe he just took pity on us today, maybe he’s here between appointments.
“Let’s go, Bethie.” I grab her hand. “At least we don’t have to walk in the rain.”
I poke my head inside the car. “Everything okay?”
“Everything’s great, couldn’t be better. I had an outside meeting that finished early, so I thought I’d save you guys from getting soaked.”
“That’s great, Dad, but I can’t come now, just take Beth-Ann. I’ve got a math tutorial starting in twenty minutes.”
“Maureen, why don’t you forget about that tutorial today?”
What? “Forget about the math tutorial? Are you serious?” Extremely weird, definitely out of character.
“Yeah, forget about it. Jump in. I’ve got a surprise for the two of you.”
“Dad, I don’t know. The math exam is on Monday.”
“Which means you have all weekend to study. Now get in the car. I mean it.”
“Okay.” I’m doubtful, but climb in the front seat, anyway. This is ridiculous; Dad is the first one to tell me to get extra help if I need it. But it’s not worth a fight. I can always get my questions answered tomorrow, I’m thinking as we head down Elizabeth Avenue toward Kerry Street.
“Dad,” I say, as we pass the Jewish synagogue, “aren’t we going to Aunt Kay’s?”
“Not today. I’m taking the rest of the afternoon off.” And there’s a smile as big as tomorrow on his face.
Taking the rest of the afternoon off? I don’t suppose . . .
I glance at him sideways, suspiciously. “Any special reason for that?”
He looks over at me, eyes mischievous, a finger on his lips. “Shhh! It’s supposed to be a surprise.”
Mom’s home? My eyes are two big question marks and Dad nods back enthusiastically.
She’s home!
I slide down the seat as pure relief floods my body. I cannot believe it. Is this nightmare finally over?
In the three weeks since Mom was home that Saturday, I’ve spoken to her five times on the phone. And every single time she was always bright and interested, really alert. But whenever I’d ask the big burning question—when was she coming home for good?—her voice would trail away. “It shouldn’t be too much longer,” she’d say, quietly. “They’re still adjusting my medications.” I mean, how frustrating is that? Why can’t doctors just figure that stuff out, what’s wrong with them? How can Mom sound so good and still need to stay in hospital?
Now it seems those long weeks of
waiting are nearly done.
The big, heavy car trundles into the driveway and we all jump out, Beth-Ann chattering away, totally unaware that anything might be different. I’m steeling myself as I walk through the wet to the front door. I will not cry. Not this time. I will not ruin Mom’s homecoming and make a fool of myself again.
The door swings open, we step into the living room, and there lying on the sofa is Mom. Eyes alive and dancing, arms outstretched to us.
“Mommy!” shrieks Beth-Ann, running and falling on top of her.
“Oh my baby,” says Mom, nuzzling into Beth-Ann’s blonde curls. Then she lifts her eyes to me. “Come over here, honey. Come over and give me a hug.”
With forced composure, I cross the floor, kneel beside her. “Hi, Mom,” I whisper, the familiar sting starting up in my eyes, my throat tightening. But I blink fiercely and focus, push back the tears, melt myself into the feeling of Mom’s gentle fingers running down the length of my hair. Don’t ever leave us again. I lay my head on the plaid blanket covering her legs. Please don’t ever leave me again.
Mom kisses the top of my head. “Oh, Maureen, thank God I’m finally home.”
“Is it over now, Mom?” I look up at her. “Do you have to go back?”
“Yes, sweetie, it’s over. I do have to go back for appointments, checkups really. But I’m officially discharged from hospital. My bags are unpacked and I’m home.”
“Hooray!” yells Beth-Ann. “Mommy’s home forever.”
A calm settles over me, but then it’s rippled by a tiny niggling doubt. Can this be true, is Mom really all right, is she home for good? I remember Sister Marion’s words that day in her office and they echo in my brain: “Your mother may always need a little extra attention, Maureen . . . you must be careful never to cause her any upset or confusion.” Maybe it’s not really over. How can we be sure Mom will never get sick again? I push the nagging worry away. There’s no point thinking about what’s ahead—seriously, there’s no way I can control that. I focus on the here and now: Mom on the sofa, her hands in my hair, the sweet realization that she’s home again, released from that horrible hospital.
The Secret Life of a Funny Girl Page 12