Falling Under (6 page)

“Depressed?” “Yeah.”

“And is that what you’re afraid of, Mara? With me, I mean?”

I meet his gaze. “Did I say I was afraid?” “Only a hundred different ways,” he says. So much for my brave face.

“I think it’s kind of normal,” he says. “Being afraid?”

“Yeah. Everybody’s afraid of something. People don’t get to this point in their lives without some baggage, right?”

“I guess not,” I say.

“And hey,” he says and grins, “given the state of things, we should all be depressed.”

“You think?”

“Oh yeah. The world’s a mess. We’ve got religious fanat- ics, poverty, human rights abuses, global warming, poisoned water, bullshit advertising, mad cow disease.. .”

“All right, all right!”

“Assassinations, kidnappings, polarization of left and right, discrimination, tsunamis, genocide, cell phones, bad wages for strippers.. .”

I’m shaking my head, but somehow also laughing. And he continues.

“Genetically modified broccoli, un-muzzled pit bulls, smog, the breakdown of family, puppy mills, gridlock, iden- tity theft, loss of privacy, the Asian longhorned beetle killing our trees. It’s endless!”

“Okay, stop, stop!”

He leans forward and takes my hand and gets serious on me again.

“So tell me, Mara, what’s the deal?”

“Okay, Dr. Phil.”

I could. I could tell Hugo that sometimes I am paralyzed trying to cross the street, that I have nightmares that bleed into the daytime, that it’s more than depression, more than anxiety or alcoholism or compulsion.

And then, even with his accepting nature, his positive attitude, the wisdom I’ve seen in him these past few nights, he would still wreck it. He might want to save me, or tell me to pull myself up by my bootstraps, start jogging, do yoga, be logical, take medication, meditate, forgive myself, free myself, be stronger, braver. And I will hate him for it and it will be over.

And I really, really like him. And so...

“It’s no big deal,” I say. “I had a relationship crisis a few years ago, and I got depressed, drank too much, couldn’t paint. I turned it around and I’m making a living as an artist, which is an accomplishment. It’s not to put you off at all, but I think it’s more important to live in the present, don’t you?”

“Sure,” he says.

“So talk to me about today. What’s going on with you today?”

And so, crisis averted, we talk. And talk. And keep talking. But it’s not the words, or not just the words, but what happens alongside and between the words. It’s my eyes, drifting over his body, and our hands and lips and the sounds that come from our mouths.

The bricklike pressure I carry around on my chest light- ens, gets pushed aside, if only for a while.

The crowd is thin in the bar tonight.

Pauses filled with warm air, the touch of Hugo’s fingers on the back of my hand, the thrumming of my heart as it squeezes against the wall of the box I’ve been keeping it in since...

I won’t think about that. Since...

Damn. Since Lucas.

I shut my eyes. “Mara?”

I open my eyes, try to smile, to recapture the mood. “Sorry,” I say. “Hey, what about that mindless sex?” “Not a chance,” he says.

“That’s what I was afraid of.” “See you tomorrow night?” “Probably.”

Chapter Eight

“I
’m not going to be dependent on some bastard,” Mom says. “And neither are you.”

It’s not like you’re telling her to marry him, but the nice man from down the street keeps calling and you feel bad telling him that Mom’s out when she isn’t.

“But, Mom, he might make you happy.”

“I’ll be happy when I know I can put you through univer- sity.”

“I’m not going to university.” “That’s what you think.”

“I’m going to stay here and take care of you.”

“Don’t. You. Dare,” she says in the voice that isn’t sup- posed to be screaming, but really is.

“But, Mom, who’ll make sure you eat? Who’ll rub your forehead and pick up groceries and help you with your filing?”

She needs you. She has to need you. Your stupid lower lip is quivering and you hate that. You need to
not
need her.

Mom stares hard at you, pushes an oversprayed chunk of brown hair behind her ear.

“Of course I need you, kid. But you’re going to grow up, and then what I need is for you to be able to take care of yourself.”

“Okay... I’ll go to university. I’ll be a doctor.” “Let’s just get you through the fifth grade.” “Okay,” you say. “Mom?”

“Yes?”

“D’you think I’ll have a husband ever?”

“I don’t know, sweetheart. Do you think you’ll want one?”

“Well.. .”

Will she take it the wrong way if you say yes?

“Only if we don’t fight and he promises not to interfere with my career.”

Mom throws her head back and laughs and laughs, then she grabs your shoulders and dances you around the room.

It’s a good day. A day you hold close and relive on all the other days when you come home to an empty house or a mom buried in paperwork who shushes you for making too much noise washing the dishes.

You never complain that you’re lonely, or that the kids at school don’t like you—you know she can’t do anything about it.

6

One month into junior high (where you still have no friends), Mom buys a house in North York and you have to move.

Being the new girl doesn’t turn out to be the great fresh start it was supposed to be—instead, it sucks. You’re not a

girl who takes piano lessons or ballet or plays on a soccer team. You are not a girl who gets a new fall wardrobe and fancy pencil cases. It’s not the divorce—lots of kids’ parents are getting divorced now—it’s that something is wrong with you. You don’t look right in your clothes, you don’t laugh at the things other girls laugh at, or, if you do, it’s a beat too late, too loud. You don’t have a record collection or watch
Falcon Crest
or have a crush on John Stamos. You have noth- ing that says Esprit or Benetton on it, and you don’t perm your hair. You’re rotten at sports and you live in a serious world—a mom in night school with two jobs, a dad in an apartment that reeks of cabbage and cigarette smoke.You are alone.

But alone is fine. Alone is perfect, as long as nobody bugs you. You doodle nasty cartoon versions of your classmates in the backs of your notebooks and practice glaring in the bath- room mirror at home. You’re getting tall, so the glaring works, and soon the only people who talk to you are your teachers.

One day after Thanksgiving, someone sits beside you at lunch.

“I see you drawing,” she says. You say nothing.

“What are you drawing all the time?” “Nothing,” you mumble.

“You’re new.”

“No shit.”

“I’m Bernadette. We’re in Geography together.” “I know.”

“Sometimes I skip.”

You take a bite of your sandwich.

“I skip class, and I hang out behind the 7-Eleven and smoke.”

“Good for you.” “You could come.” “No thanks.”

“You don’t have any friends,” she says.

“And?” you say, and ignore the wobbly feeling in your gut that her observation brings.

“Well, you want one?” “One what?”

“A friend, dipshit.” “Oh.”

“I have some friends already,” she says, “but some of them are so immature. You seem . . . smart. Different.”

It could be a trick. “Maybe,” you say.

“Maybe, huh?” she says. “Okay. We could do, like, a trial period.”

“All right.” “Cool.”

“I’m Mara.”

“Sure, I know.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“One thing.. .” “Yeah?”

“Call me Bernie and I’ll fucking deck you.” Of course you say yes.

You say yes to the first boy who wants to “go around” with you too. All at once you have a best friend and a

boyfriend—if getting stoned and giving someone a hand job makes him your boyfriend. But he’s clumsy and boring and soon you break up with him. Bernadette, though, her you keep.

Suddenly going downtown to Dad’s for the weekend is very cool. Bernadette comes with you sometimes, and you can always sneak a couple of beers.

Dad catches you taking one once, when you’re there alone. He tries to have a heart-to-heart about it, but he doesn’t do so well considering he’s on his sixth.

“Dad,” you say, “it’s really no big deal. I know what I’m doing.”

“But, sweetheart, it’s not... Your mother would.. .” “Never know.”

He blinks.

You sit down next to him on the couch. “Dad, I’m very mature, and I know how to handle it.”

“Hey, I’m not so old, I get it, but.. .”

“It’s just a beer now and then. I like the taste.” “Me, too, honey. Me, too.”

“How ’bout I just sit here with you and finish it while you watch the game.”

“Just this once.” “Okay.”

“And don’t tell your mother.” “Never.”

He smiles.

You smile back. “Our secret,” you say.

And that clinches it. Beer and baseball become a tradition for you and Dad, except when he has a girlfriend, which he

often does. Then your weekends are spent going to lame amusement parks and the zoo. You sneak the beer into your room at night and try not to hear them screwing in the next room. You’re twelve, so it’s not like you don’t know about these things, but seriously, it’s gross.

6

Hugo and I find the bar too noisy on our sixth meeting.

He suggests we walk.

The word “walk” has a slightly sickening effect on me, but I can’t exactly say I don’t walk. Obviously I walk; it’s a basic skill. I roll my shoulders and breathe. I focus on Hugo, on wanting to be with Hugo.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Fine,” I say, and grip the edge of my chair. “You look a little... dizzy or something.”

I swallow, then nod. “Yeah, I was for a second. I’m fine though.”

I stand up and reach for his hand. The warmth of his grip grounds me.

“Let’s walk,” I say.

He gives me a cute, shy smile, squeezes my hand and we’re off.

The air is crisp and smells of fallen leaves and wood smoke. I take full breaths. I’m okay. Air has never smelled so good.

“So,” Hugo says, “what about your family? You said your parents are divorced. Are they both still in Toronto?”

Something always wrecks it. I try to relax my jaw.

“Yeah, my dad lives on Jarvis. He, um, works in the restaurant industry on and off, he’s got an on-and-off girl- friend, and generally he’s ... either on or off.”

“I’m not sure if I should laugh at that or not. Are you serious?”

“Dad’s got issues,” I say. “He’s all right though, he’s... we’re friends.”

“And your mom?”

I sigh. “She’s here too. I don’t see her very much.” “Why not?”

“I used to know.”

“Is this another one of those off-limits subjects?” Hugo asks. “Should we talk about...I don’t know, particle the- ory, musical theater?”

There is an edge to his tone, which makes me feel sick in addition to tense.

“No, it’s fine,” I say. It’ll have to be. I can’t shut him down on every personal subject and expect him to keep hanging around. “I’m sorry, I’m just out of the habit of talk- ing about any of this.”

“Okay . . .” he says, and waits.

“Um... my mom and I... it’s been a rocky relationship since I was a teenager, even before that. For a long time I was angry but now ... we’re just different. It doesn’t work very well between us.”

Again, he waits, just watching me.

I take a deep breath. “My dad was a bit of a flake, in terms of child support, reliability, all kinds of things. It’s not really his fault, he’s just always been a mess. To be fair though, my mom was on her own supporting us, raising me,

etcetera. I was made very aware of what a strain it was for her, how disappointed she was in how her life turned out. And she wasn’t exactly the warm and fuzzy type—still isn’t. She wasn’t around a lot because she had to work so much and when she was, her parenting strategy was about making me tough and independent.”

I pause and glance at Hugo, who is now looking far too sympathetic.

“She succeeded,” he says.

I make a sound that’s almost a laugh. “You don’t think so?” he says.

I’m flattered, but he has obviously confused prickly and paranoid with tough and independent. What would he think if he saw me hiding in my house, painting the same thing over and over, running to my lover to get my fears fucked away? Would he think I was tough if he knew that the closer we get to a relationship the more terrified I am?

“I’m glad you do,” I reply.

6

I hold my shit together, though between the walking and the personal conversation, it’s a challenging evening. I wave good-bye from my car and drive two blocks before the shak- ing starts and I’m forced to pull over. I rest my head on the steering wheel and wait. I try to slow my breathing and tell myself that I’m making progress, that I am, in fact, being strong. Stronger, at least.

But when the shaking subsides it leaves a chasm of loneliness and doubt. I find myself driving, but not in the direction of home.

I park the car, take out my rarely used cell phone and dial. I usually give him more warning. I usually manage to stay away longer. But there is a strange safety in Erik and I need that safety right now.

He’s waiting in the open doorway, a lit joint in his hand. “Hey,” I say, and brush past him.

Maybe it’s because of Hugo, or maybe I’m more of a mess than usual, but I start babbling about the weather and then the mayoral race and finally about an editorial piece I read online this morning. Erik leans back on the closed door and squints at me through the haze of smoke until, finally, I trail off.

“What’s going on?” he says.

“Nothing,” I say, but I have trouble meeting his eyes.

Regardless, he sees me. Even stoned, even though we never talk much, he sees.

“Bullshit,” he says. “Try again.”

“Oh,” I say. “You know I’m always a little fucked up.

Nothing new.”

“Really?” he says. He moves to stub the joint in an ash- tray and then walks toward me. I take a step back and bump into the side of the couch. He comes close and stands inches away, never breaking eye contact. “Then how come you can’t shut up? How come you look like you might break if I touch you?”