Rotten Peaches

by Lisa de Nikolits

  One day we go for a bike ride on the trail along the edge of the muddy Don River. It’s early spring, with a clear, high blue sky. The sun is shining and it is unseasonably warm.

  “Just a short ride,” I say to the girls as Dave loads the bikes into the car. “Parts of the ground will still be frozen, we must be careful of patches of ice.”

  “I’ll ride ahead and check,” Dave says. “We’ll take it easy.”

  The girls are overjoyed at the prospect of a ride to the Bloor Viaduct where we can watch the subway trains clacking back and forth behind the enormous steel girders, with the city skyline behind.

  The river still has chunks of ice from a recent storm and there are patches of snow in the shady parts of the adjoining marshy fields. We can hear the traffic from the highway as we pedal along, with leafless brown trees lining the way. We are gloved and hatted up and, with the sunshine on my face, I feel the glimmer of something that might be close to happiness.

  But a tiny field mouse springs out in front of me, directly in the path of my wheel and there is nothing I can do to avoid it. I hear an awful pop as its little skull blasts open. I am riding at the back and I don’t want to tell the girls or Dave about the horrible thing that has just happened, but I slow down and look behind me. Yes, there is the tiny corpse.

  Yet again, life reaches out and slaps me in the face. You think you can be happy, Leonie? Think again. But was I the one crushing my potential happiness, just like I killed that hapless mouse? Or was I the mouse, with an inevitable fate and a bad sense of timing? I tell myself that the mouse isn’t my fault. I didn’t have time to swerve. It ran directly under my wheel. I feel sick as I pedal to catch up to the girls and Dave and I try to focus on their happy chatter.

  ***

  “Do you think we can learn to be happy with ourselves? I mean be content with our own selves and not need anybody else?” I ask Gerstein the therapist. “By the way, I’m getting tired of these sessions. I don’t think they’re helping at all.” I get up and walk the length of the room. Gerstein’s office is a converted granny cottage behind the house, a cosy, low-beamed place, vaguely reminiscent of a hunting lodge. Both the main house and the cottage look polished and well-maintained, Restoration Hardware all the way, whereas ours continues to sag like a defeated circus tent left out in the rain. I sit down again and rub my sleeve on the edge of Gerstein’s immaculate sofa and wonder how long it would take Muffin to destroy it.

  “We aren’t supposed to not need anybody. We are humans. We need other people. But not at the expense of ourselves. It’s not unusual that you want and crave affection and acknowledgement. We all want that. From our parents, our peers, our family. We want to feel needed and included. But we also need to realize that other people are their own islands too. They have their own scripts running through their heads, things we can’t even imagine. Therefore, most of the assumptions we make about what they are thinking and feeling about us are inaccurate. But we base our happiness and self-esteem and moods on those very things.”

  I looked out the window. “My parents didn’t care about me either. You’d think I would be used to it.”

  “You judge yourself harshly,” Gerstein observes. “You are who you are, you have the needs you have. Why question them? Ask yourself if what you need is positive, and is it something you can control? These are pertinent questions, but don’t judge yourself for needing what you need.”

  I don’t agree with Gerstein. “I want to change my needs. I want to be able to control my them. That’s why I’m here.”

  “And you can change them, to a degree. But maybe we over-estimate the happiness levels we feel we are ‘owed’ in this life.”

  “I need to lower my expectations?”

  “Perhaps first ask yourself what they are. What do you want from life?”

  To live with JayRay forever, amen. “Um, I don’t know. To make my family happy, to be a good wife to Dave, to work hard and make a lot of money.”

  “Making your family happy, that would make you happy?”

  “It would make me feel like a good person and feeling like a good person would make me feel happy.”

  “I’m not sure happiness is a consequence of something like that. Like you can say, I’ll feel happy when I pass this exam and you are, for a bit, but then that happiness goes away. We’re looking for something deeper here. Something where, if you fail your family and you fail your husband and you fail your job, you can still feel happy.”

  I give a sharp bark of laughter. “You’re living in la-la land, doc. And I would rather make other people happy and be miserable myself than be happy myself and make others miserable.”

  “One does not necessarily come at the cost of the other.”

  “Not necessarily, but usually it does. That’s life.” I reach for my purse and stand up. “Thanks doc. I’m not being sarcastic. I’ll try to think about what would make me happy. Maybe I don’t feel things the way other people do.”

  “You might be surprised by how many people think and say exactly that. See you when you get back. Where is it this time?”

  “Orlando. I like being by myself. There’s something that makes me happy. I like being in the airport alone. I like being on the plane alone. I like being in my hotel room alone.”

  “Then enjoy that and don’t hate yourself for being happy in those moments,” Gerstein says and she holds the door open for me. “It’s all much more complicated and much more simple than we think.”

  I nod and walk out into her neat and tidy garden, feeling more miserable than I had when I arrived. I always feel worse when I leave. I told Dave that and he said it meant that progress was being made. He says things are being shaken up and that’s good.

  Easy for him to say.

  23.

  “OOOOH!” IT HAS TO BE IRIS, that squeal. I look up. Yes, it’s Iris. “Look!” She flashes an enormous diamond ring under my nose.

  “Whoa, JayRay went all out,” I manage to sputter.

  Iris blushes. “Yes, he did.”

  How does it feel to have to buy your own ring? I think, still holding Iris’s bony little hand. Tiny bird hand, like a sparrow. Iris the sparrow.

  “When’s the big day?” I ask.

  “We’re already married,” Iris says breezily and I might die right then.

  “Oh?” I manage.

  “Yes. It was a civil ceremony and James looked very handsome. Like a movie star. Look.” She scrolls through the pictures on her phone. Yes, indeedy, James looked like a dream. My dream guy, beaming at his blushing bride while she gazes up at him adoringly.

  “Were your family there?” I ask, sitting down on my high stool and leaning on the table, glad that it’s a solid support. I scrabble to find a tranq in my purse under the table, and I swallow it dry. “Bad headache,” I say as Iris looks concerned.

  “Sorry to hear that, my dear.” Iris shakes her head. “I don’t have any family to speak of. But now I have James. He’s all the family I need.”

  “Did you have a honeymoon?”

  “Not yet. But we’re going on a cruise when this show ends, to the Caribbean. James has been working so hard, he deserves a rest.”

  A rest. You certainly got what you wanted here, JayRay. Motherfucker.

  “Congratulations,” I force a smile. I wish I could lie down on the floor and never get up.

  “Thank you, my dear! I must dash, I want to get some shopping done before James and I meet up for dinner. Toodle-loo! Have a great show!”

  I watch Iris flutter off, waving hellos this way and that, flashing her enormous ring and beaming.

  Gerstein the therapist had suggested I write a journal, to check in with my moods every so often in the day. Gerstein said I might surprise myself by being happier than I thought I was. So much for that.

  How do I feel? Crappy. Let me count the ways. Shitty, fucked, gu
tted. Sad, angry, want to punch something, hit something, hate something, hate people, hate the world, hate the universe, fuck everybody, hate everybody, hate, hate, hate. I’ve always hated the show in Orlando and now I hate it more than ever.

  I’m worried I will lose my shit in front of everyone so I take another pill.

  I have to kill Iris. She should be dead by now but the bitch clearly needs a higher dose. I’ll make up a gift basket, a wedding gift, with enough poison to kill a town. The thought cheers me up. I want that the skinny old bitch six feet under.

  But wait. Has Iris written JayRay into her will? Has she bequeathed everything to him? Is he going to end up with millions? Because if that’s the case, that fucker JayRay needs to die too. There’s no way he’s going to come out of this all roses and sunshine with money to burn. I will kill both of them. But what if there’s a chance JayRay will come back to me? But he’s shown no sign of even acknowledging my presence. It’s over. So they both have to die. It’s the only way I’ll be able to live.

  “Leonie, are you all right?” It’s my neighbour, Sandi, purveyor of chakra remedies and cosmic laxatives, guaranteed to flush the bejesus out of your colon for goddamned good.

  “Wha…?” I realize I can hardly form the words. I’m slurring badly. “Uh…” I can’t seem to form the words, “bad … migraine, took too many meds.”

  “Yeah, Leonie, I think you did. Look, it’s nearly closing time. I’ll take care of your stall. We’ve been neighbours for two shows now, so don’t think I’ve been stalking you but I know the ropes. You go to your room, okay? Don’t worry about anything, just make it to your room, okay?”

  “Yeah. Shanks, Shandi. I owe you.”

  “Not a problem. Here’s your purse. Here, I’m going to loop the strap around your neck. Where’s your hotel key?”

  I dig into my bag until I find it. “Here.”

  “Good, okay off you go. If you wake up later and want to catch up with me, I’m in Room 508. Wait, I’ll write it on your hand.”

  She scribbles the room number on my hand and waves the security guard over. “My friend here isn’t feeling too good. Will you see her up to her room?”

  The security guard nods and he grips me by the elbow. “Sure thing. C’mon, ma’am.”

  I lean against him and he guides me through the conference hall, across the lobby, into the elevator and up to my room. He takes the key card from me when I can’t manage and he swings the door open. “Come on, in you go.”

  I stumble across the room and fall on the bed face-first, with my purse crushed under my belly.

  I hear the door shut and I bury my head in the coverlet. JayRay had married Iris. Things cannot get any worse.

  “You’re a pretty thing,” a voice says and I struggle to raise myself up onto my elbows.

  “JayRay? You came!”

  “Whatever, baby, yeah, I’m that guy.”

  But something is wrong, JayRay is pushing my blouse up out of my trousers and he’s being rough, coarse. It doesn’t feel like him.

  “Are you drunk?” I ask him and my phone rings in my purse and we both look at it and something about the ringing brings me back into the moment and the reality of what’s happening.

  “You’re not JayRay,” I say and the guard pushes me back on the bed. My phone continues to ring and I’m flat on my back, ridiculously clutching my purse, while the security guard tugs at my belt.

  I reach for the bottle of water on the nightstand and I hit the man with it. Water pours over him and he growls and rears off me for a moment.

  “Wild cat? Yeah, baby, bring it.”

  I take advantage of the moment to roll out from under him and I fall off the bed. I grab a can of hairspray off the table, thanking god and my guardian angels for something so mundane. Kneeling, I spray the guard full on, and more goes in his mouth than his eyes and he spits and chokes and I manage to get to my feet.

  “Get the fuck out,” I yell, but my voice is no more than a weak croak. “Jerry, yes, that’s you, and don’t think I won’t report you, get the fuck out of here now!”

  Jerry is still gagging on the hairspray and he staggers out, spitting as he goes.

  I fall on the door after he leaves and lock it. My purse is still tied around me but it’s upside down and a trail of debris snakes across the floor.

  I pull the bag off and drop it onto the floor. I flop down on the bed, face-up this time, leery of the ghost of Jerry but before I know it, I’m out cold.

  I wake several hours later and the room is dark but light is shining in from the building outside. I have no idea what happened. Why am I still in my work clothes? I can’t remember what happened. The last thing I recall was that I was at my stall, and now I’m here. I run my hand through my hair, which is matted and sweaty, and as I do, I notice something written on my hand. Room 508, Sandi. What does that mean?

  I slide off the bed, horribly sober, and frightened by the lack of knowledge of the past few hours. I grab my wallet and key card. I find Room 508 and I knock on the door.

  A woman opens it. Right, my stall neighbour. “Hey, Leonie, good to see you. How’s your head, girl?”

  “I’m okay. What happened? I woke up in my room now and I can’t remember anything.”

  “Here, sit down, have some water. You took one too many migraine pills, and I got Jerry, the security fella, to walk you up to your room.”

  “Jerry.” Something about that rings a less than popular bell but I’ll figure it out later.

  “Yeah. Listen, a few people stopped by, I sold some of your stuff for you. I’m going to get myself a starter kit for when I’m at home. I read your brochures. Your product is awesome! But don’t worry about that now, don’t worry about anything, we’ll sort it out tomorrow. You go back to your room, get something to eat and have a bath. Water is purifying and cleansing, and I don’t mean just for washing but for healing.”

  “Good thinking. Thanks Sandi.”

  “No problem, see you tomorrow.”

  I return to my room and sit down on the bed. My life is in the toilet. No, my life is in the sewer. Now I’m having blackouts too. Something happened with some turd named Jerry. I don’t know what it was, but I know it wasn’t good. And a horrible memory flashes its way to the surface of my pain, a big shiny ring that glitters and sparkles and cuts my heart to bleeding ribbons. JayRay married that skinny bitch Iris.

  Never mind finding the happiness within. I have no reason to live.

  I have the sudden thought that my phone is awfully quiet. What if Ralph had tried to get in touch with me? He did that randomly, when I least expected it. And what if he had a spy in the conference hall, someone who alerted him that I had left my stall? You were never allowed to leave your booth, not even if you were dying. I’d packed up early a couple of times now and I had left my stand and product in the hands of a stranger. I wouldn’t put it past Ralph to have eyes on me.

  I dig around in my empty purse and try to find my phone, hoping it is buried in a side pocket but it isn’t there. I feel sick, where could I have lost it? I kneel down on the floor and look under the bed but there’s nothing. I search among the debris on the floor, throwing things aside, but still, nothing. I look in my suitcase, and I look in the washroom, among the towels that I had thrown on the floor that were still there because I had requested no housekeeping. No housekeeping meant the housekeeper couldn’t have stolen my phone but someone has, someone has taken my phone, with my contacts and my loving messages from JayRay, not to mention my lying texts to my family.

  I don’t know what to do. As a last resort, I pick up the landline and dial my cell. To my amazement, I hear it ringing, a muffled and distant sound, and I realize it has to be in the bed. The phone is buried under the comforter.

  Thank god. I slam the landline down and fish around in the bedding, rooting through the sheets and blankets. I finally fi
nd it. I sink down onto the bed and scroll through my missed calls.

  Much to my relief, there’s nothing from Ralph. There’s nothing from JayRay either. But there are over twenty calls from Dave. Twenty calls? And a bunch of voice messages that range from worried to angry, to spitting mad. Something happened to Kenzie. Oh no, not Kenzie! I can’t dial the numbers fast enough and Dave picks up on the second ring.

  “Nice of you to call,” he says, and his sarcasm is thick and heavy, like a forced accent in a bad movie.

  “I had a migraine, I passed out. What the fuck Dave? What happened to Kenzie?”

  “You don’t get migraines.”

  “I did today. I’m telling you the truth, I passed out. Are you going to tell me what happened or not?”

  “She got hit by a car. Some old lady jumped a red light and she hit Kenzie.”

  “Oh god. Is she okay, Dave?”

  “She’ll be fine. They’re keeping her at the hospital overnight.”

  “Shouldn’t you be there?” I’m crying, thinking of my baby alone in the hospital, all alone.

  “It’s midnight, Leonie. She’s asleep. Maddie needed to come home too. Anyway, Denise said she’ll stop by and check on Kenzie. Sam’s in to have his tonsils out and Denise was going to go back anyway.”

  “Denise? Sam? Who are you talking about?”

  “Sam goes to school with Kenzie, they’re in the same class. Denise is Sam’s mother. We’ve gone to their house for parties and Sam often comes here for playdates with Kenzie.”

  Dave’s talking slowly and carefully like to a person with an exceptionally low IQ and I lash out in anger. “Oh, cut it out, Dave. So I didn’t remember Denise or Sam, like that makes me a bad mom. I had a killer headache, why don’t you care about me? Maybe I’ve got a tumour or something, maybe I’m dying. I’m telling you, I’ve never had pain like this. I nearly died.”