Girl in Shades (10 page)

Father and I have our first Christmas without Mother there to pack the ripped-open wrapping paper into green garbage bags. In fact, there are no real presents at all. On Christmas morning, without a tree, my father gives me a gift certificate for ballet lessons (like I'll ever use them), and I give him four Mars bars wrapped in newspaper topped with a Christmas bow I found on the street.

Neither of us can really be bothered this year, especially when only half of our family is left.

After Christmas, in the days leading up to New Year's Eve, Father tells me that he is taking a business trip to San Francisco with Connie from his office. That's what he says. And inside his head he is saying,
I should be able to do this. I can get on with my life. It's not a sin to need a little physical pleasure
. Yuck, is all I can think, but I say he can go, that it's fine.

He wants me to stay at our neighbour Mrs. Pretty's house, which I flatly refuse.

“I'm not going anywhere. She'll make me sit on her flowered couch and listen to her play the piano.”

“Maya, please,” he says, which doesn't help his case. I know Mrs. Pretty will want me to talk with her about Mother's “passing,” which is something I don't want to do right now, especially with her.

He says that he knows that Mrs. Pretty and her annoying cocker spaniel are not the ideal New Year's Eve dates, but that I am still only twelve and it is his responsibility to look after me.

“Why don't you stay home then?”

“Maya, it's for work. You know I have no choice.”

“Sure.”

“You'll go over then?”

I nod yes. But as soon as my father has loaded his suitcase into his car and driven away, I call Mrs. Pretty to say he decided not to go.

“I'm glad, Maya,” she says. “He should be putting you first, anyway.”

“Yes, he should,” I say.

“You have yourself a happy New Year, Maya.”

I hang up the phone.

New Year's Eve is lonely and silent. Without my father, the walls of our house seem to be growing out, like a balloon expanding as it fills with my hot breath. In the middle I sit very still, a scared animal, trying not to be discovered.

The New Year has arrived — 1986. My father is still not home from his trip, though he said he would be back on New Year's Day.

He hasn't called me. I don't know whether to be furious or worried. I tried calling the number for the hotel, but I only got a lot of ringing and an automated voice — “Room 1111, leave message after the tone.”

I did not leave a message. But the phone rings after I hang up.

“Father?” I say into the phone, like I'm some sort of lost little girl in the mall.

“No, Maya. This is Mrs. Pretty.”

“Oh. Hi.”

“I don't appreciate you playing games with me, young lady. I just got a call from your father. He wanted to tell you that he's going to be a few days late coming home, but of course you're not here, are you?”

“Sorry.”

“You're lucky this time. I told him you were in the shower, but I think he was wise to me. I think the best thing for you to do is pack your bag and come over here right away. We can pretend this little lie of yours never happened.”

“I don't need your charity.”

“It's not charity.” Her voice sounds softer, like she's trying to soothe me with her words. “Just come over, please.”

“No, thank you. My aunt is coming over.”

This is the first time I have ever hung up the phone on somebody. Then I lock the front door and watch
Dynasty
on the living room couch with my mother's comforter wrapped around me.

I spend the weekend heating up cans of beans baked on the stovetop and nibbling on a loaf of Wonder Bread piece by piece. And now, with the Sunday sun dropping down behind our back fence, I wonder if maybe he's not coming back at all.

Floors creak when I breathe, clocks tick like they are telling me something. There must be a mouse zigzagging across the hall floor because I hear tiny footsteps. I sleep in my mother and father's bed. One tiny me that can't possibly take up the whole space of the mattress.

And tomorrow morning I have to go back to school. I have already laid out my clothes for the day on my bed: red stockings, a plaid skirt, and a white blouse which I ironed myself and spread out neatly so that no teachers would think I looked uncared for. But the night is so long, the clock only seems to change numbers once an hour or so. Cars are going by outside; they don't know I am inside, alone.

I have put my mother's aromatherapy bottles up on the nightstand, just the special ones, calming ones — lavender, patchouli, orange. They are lined up like tiny soldiers and I am sniffing them one by one. Each fragrance bursts out of the bottle and into the darkness when I suck it up my nose. My brown tape player has a handle so I can carry it, and I have put it on the floor beside the bed. Inside is the
Boy in the Box
tape I bought with Aunt Leah shortly after the funeral. When I think I need to hear a man's voice, I turn on Corey Hart.

So if you're lost and on your own

You can never surrender

And if your path won't lead you home

You can never surrender

I can pretend I still have two parents, even though I don't. A lot of things appear to be real even though they aren't underneath — television shows, for example, the man from that movie
Tootsie
who pretends to be a lady, waxy fruit in a bowl, clouds that look like animals, Mrs. Roughen's blond hair, bacon bits from a jar, the feeling that thunder is hitting the top of your house. It's become windy outside, and I worry that the windows in my parents' bedroom will break through, though I'm not sure why because they never have before.

When morning comes, I slide red tights up each of my pale legs, pull my hair into a ponytail, and brush my teeth with much more than a pea-sized drop of toothpaste. I'm under my winter jacket, scarf, and wool hat, but the January sun still paints my nose, mocking me —
what do you think you're doing? People are going to find out you're all alone.
I keep going, turning to lock the door behind me and reaching a foot out to drop myself down the front steps. My body cuts through the air — arms swinging, head looking up, backpack sturdy on my back, lips pursed together.

“Why are you so dressed up today?” Brian says to me, and I can feel my face flush hot. But then, “I think you forgot to brush your hair, though.” I run my fingers through the knotted hair of my ponytail.

“Mind your own business!” I blast out to him as I slide into my seat.

“Maybe you are trying to go out with one of the greasy museum workers at Boomtown!”

I scowl at this and then remember it is field trip day. “I forgot, today is the day we go to Boomtown,” I say mostly to myself but Brian hears.

“No duh!” he replies.

“Shut up.” My father signed the approval form before Christmas holidays — when he was still here.

Even though I have been to the Western Development Museum tons of times and feel like we have outgrown it, the trip does let the grade seven classes be merged, which means I can spend the day with Chauncey and Heather.

They greet me beside the bus. Chauncey with his arm in the air, waving, and Heather with her head cocked playfully, smiling.

“We thought we could sit together!” Chauncey says. His words seem to get trapped in bubbles that float from his mouth. “Bitch Jackie is not coming!”

Heather links her arm in mine and pulls me onto the bus. Her attention makes me feel like I am the only one who has been chosen, ever.

The brochure they hand me at the door says, “Welcome to Boomtown, a prairie main street depicting life in 1910. A step into Boomtown is a step back in time.”

“Hey, aren't you that kid from the shampoo commercial?” — this from the lady behind the counter as we enter. I feel red cover my face again, and I give her a smile with no teeth.

“Yes, she's famous!” Chauncey yells out to her as we pass through the metal turnstile. He pats me on my head, which makes me laugh. “You can have her autograph, but you'll have to pass it by me first. I'm her manager.”

“Who says you get to be her manager?” Heather says.

“Because I'm a guy, that's why. People will take me more seriously.”

“Yeah, right! And you are barely a guy even.”

“What did you say?”

We are standing at the end of the Boomtown main street: Chauncey, Heather and I. The fake houses that we couldn't wait to explore in the third and fourth grades are waiting before us like aging celebrities. I look up to the sky, to the place above our heads, above the wooden buildings that say things like “Harness Shop” and “Feed Stable” — and I see the black ceiling. Crossbeams cut through the sky with huge floodlights creating suns. Chauncey and Heather are still fighting over who gets to be my manager.

“Do you think I'm not manly enough to be someone's manager, Heather?”

“I never said that.” Heather's body seems to be shrinking, her bones getting smaller around. I can hear from inside that she is sorry, either that or I am getting the sense.

“Well, why don't you just screw off.” Chauncey takes off by himself through this inside town. A town set up to be real, to be outside, to be home to people going about their lives, going to school, going to the general store, going to jail. But the people we see are only mannequins, and they're not fooling anybody.

The teachers herd us into a circle like we're cattle, and we set out down the boarded sidewalks together — all except Chauncey, who has disappeared. The boards create a hollow echo under our feet when we walk, making us want to stamp harder. Heather and I do.

“Girls, please,” says Mr. Wigman, who is looking through a pile of notes and pamphlets. We all follow him inside one of the houses, but all forty of us cannot fit inside and they realize then that we will have to take two different paths around the town. Heather and I stay with Mr. Wigman, leaning over the rope barriers of every exhibit.

“Now, this is an example of a typical home in 1910,” Mr. Wigman says. “You can see that the table is set for dinner, which would probably have included something like bread and different meats.” He isn't looking at his notes anymore and no one is really listening to him, which makes me feel bad.

“What's that?” I yell out, pointing.

“Good question, Maya. Why, that looks like some sort of pump. They must have used it to pump water into the house.”

“They didn't have taps?” says Brian Bellamy and I want to yell out, “Of course they didn't have taps, and of course that is a pump to bring in water — I just asked to make Mr. Wigman feel better!”

We move from building to building. “This is the general store, look at all the different remedies.” Then, “This is the police station. Who would like to sit inside the cell while I close the door?” Heather is too scared, but I'm not. The cell makes me feel safe, black bars holding me in.

“These are the stables, where they used to keep the horses. Just look at the heavy leather saddles on the wall, so intricate, eh?” Still no one is listening, but we all nod anyway.

When we reach the fake schoolhouse, the one-room classroom from the 1900s, we find Chauncey. He has hopped over the rope barrier and wedged himself into one of the small desks. His cheeks are puffy, almost like he has been crying. He has a tiny blackboard in his hand and is drawing on it with a piece of chalk. Mr. Wigman pretends to see only the blackboard.

“See class, that is what they call a slate. In class you would write on that instead of paper, using chalk instead of a pencil.”

I can't decide what is stranger, Mr. Wigman explaining things that we have seen every year since grade three (there are not that many different places to take field trips in Saskatoon) or Chauncey, stuck inside a tiny desk, pretending to be a student in 1910.

“Chauncey, what are you doing in there?” asks Heather.

“Just sitting. I'm sick of all this.”

Heather lifts her small jean leg over the rope and goes over to grab Chauncey by the arm. “C'mon, Chaunce, everyone is looking.”

“Who cares if they look?” Chauncey concentrates on his slate; he has drawn a sun on a straight-line horizon.

“Let's move on!” Mr. Wigman says interrupting them. “You have free time from here on. We'll meet back at the bus at three.”

The grade sevens file out of the classroom, except for Heather, Chauncey, and me.

“Take back what you said, Heather,” Chauncey says.

“Okay, I take it back.”

“But do you mean it?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“Totally.”

“C'mon, guys,” I say. “It's not worth fighting over who can be my manager. I'm not exactly planning on doing anymore commercials.”