Grows That Way (9 page)

chapter
seventeen

We don't even have to pick them up at the airport. Grandpa says there are so many things Isobel wants to see that it will be better if they rent a car.

Our Saturday is shot anyway, because we have to tidy the house and make up the guest room and Mom tries to sound breezy and carefree when she says that Grandpa told her one bed would be fine, but it's bothering her. It kind of bothers me too, if I let myself think about it.

Plus we have to go grocery shopping, meaning me and Mom. She insisted Dad not cancel his golf game, she said she didn't want that noble selfless sacrifice hanging over her head, whatever that means. Dad squealed his tires on the way out the driveway, so he wasn't very happy about it. Maybe he didn't want to play golf today?

Mom and I drop in on Auntie Sally on the way home from Safeway. Mom says she needs to give Auntie Sally the news face-to-face. For a change we're not assaulted by Bunga as soon as we come in the door. Auntie Sally says Erika has taken him for a walk, but more likely it's vice versa given what I've seen of Bunga's leash training.

Usually Mom makes me go find Taylor when she wants to have a serious conflab with Auntie Sally but today the news explodes out of her before I can clear the drama zone.

Unlike Mom, Auntie Sally is thrilled. She claps her hands to her cheeks and says, “Dad has a girlfriend? Wow!”

“I'm to make up only one bed,” says Mom, wide-eyed with secret meaning that of course I understand.

Auntie Sally blinks. “They are adults, Ev,” she says.

“Do you think Dad knows about STD's?” Mom says. “You know that AIDS is on the increase in Florida because seniors aren't taking precautions.”

“I'll go find Taylor,” I say.

I knock at Taylor's door and after a second or two she says, “Come in.” When I open the door and she sees that it's me she slides a book on animal communication out from under her chemistry textbook. “I thought you were Mom,” Taylor says. “She thinks I'm studying. Well, I am studying, but not what she thinks. Close the door and give me a few minutes here—I'm about to try something new.”

Taylor returns to her reading. She is surrounded by angels, her new motif since purging her room of unicorns. There are angels on her wallpaper and on her fluffy bedspread. Being in Taylor's room is like being in heaven, with a couple of exceptions. There's a framed photo on each corner of her desk. At one side is Spike, looking very handsome in a long-eared sort of way. On the other side is Franco, glowering, lids half-closed, probably trying to look like a serious macho killing machine.

Taylor closes her eyes. I lean against the wall and wait. “I'm receiving a message from Spike,” she says, patting her desk blindly for his picture then grasping it finally and pressing it to her chest.

I roll my eyes. It's safe, since Taylor is deep in trance and can't see me.

“He's on alert. There's a dog in the field. He says he's going to kill it.”

I check to make sure she really has Spike's photo and hasn't grabbed Franco's by mistake. I remember what she told me before, about how donkeys can be used as livestock protection animals, and that one of them killed a cougar.

“Not Bernadette, I hope. Tell him not to stomp Kansas's puppy,” I say.

Taylor communicates these instructions silently through the psychic universe, though I see her lips moving. “Spike says it's not Bernadette, it's a big brown stinky dog.”

My breath catches in my chest. “How big?” I say.

“Spike says it's in the ditch at the far side of the pasture, so he can't tell for sure. But it's really big, the biggest dog he's ever seen—but he's not scared, not one bit. He has his herd to protect he says.”

“Maybe it's a bear,” I say, which is nothing more than pathetic wishful thinking. “Tell him to be careful.” My heart is pounding. My cynicism has evaporated. I believe. How did this happen? How can I suddenly know with such certainty that my flakey cousin is in psychic communication with her hinny who is in pursuit of a sasquatch?

“Spike says it's not a bear, he knows what they smell like. He's only smelled a dog this bad a couple of times before, once when some dog named Bullet had rolled in something really dead where he lived back in Saskatchewan, and the other time was when we came out to meet you on that walk to the river. Stinky dog.”

“Maybe we should phone Kansas and tell her to check the horses,” I say, which shows how panicked I am because Kansas has no tolerance for fringy psychic stuff.

Taylor reaches blindly for her cellphone.

“No—wait!” I pounce on her hand, mashing it to the desk. I've just imagined Kansas coming face to face with a sasquatch. Better for Spike to deal with it.

“It's leaving,” says Taylor. “Spike says it crawled under the fence where it crosses the ditch. He says we should tell Kansas about this place, he says it's not safe, he's afraid Electra could get out this way too.” Her eyes flutter open. “Oh that was exciting!” she says. “And I think Spike has a crush on Electra! Do you think it was a bear? Really? Or a stinky stinky dog?” She laughs. This has been a lark for her.

For me, it's been terrible. I don't want Spike to be hurt. I don't want the sasquatch to be hurt. I don't want Kansas to go into cardiac arrest. It's all so out of my control, I'm desperate to change the subject.

I don't even think first, I blurt out, “Grandpa's coming. Today. With his new girlfriend, Isobel. My mom's freaked because they only want one guest bed and she doesn't know if Isobel has had an AIDS test.”

“Oh ick,” says Taylor. “Definitely too much information.” She returns Spike's framed photo to its place on her desk and considers it fondly. “He's fine now. He's eating grass.”

I sigh, and relax immediately, as though I believe Taylor completely. Maybe she really can do this psychic animal communication thing. Maybe when she's more experienced she won't even need a photo, so if I described an animal to her and it was in the vicinity, she could make contact. Wouldn't it be amazing if she could communicate with a sasquatch. I wonder what Mr. Losino would make of that; probably not much, given that he is a scientist.

I flop onto Taylor's bed, lie on my back with my hands behind my head and contemplate the ceiling.

“I've decided to become a scientist when I grow up,” I say, “like Mr. Losino.”

Taylor swivels in her chair. “Mr. Losino isn't a scientist. He's some sort of egghead who works with computers. That's what Franco tells me. He says everyone in his family is an intellectual except him. No matter how much he tries, he can't come up to their expectations. It's very hard on his self-esteem. That's why he's decided to concentrate on developing his body instead of his brain.”

I prop myself on one elbow and stare at Taylor, but am unable to speak. Obviously Franco has lied to her, and she'd be hurt if I told her so. On the other hand, she might take Franco's word over mine, then tell him what I said and he'd find me and kill me. I don't know what to do.

“What?” says Taylor. “You look like you've got a migraine, your eyes have gone all shifty.”

“Oh…well,” I say, scrambling for something, anything.

“You don't like him, do you. That's all right, nobody does, my mom won't even speak of him, I don't care. I'm the only one who really understands him.” She swivels around so she can gaze at Franco's photograph. “I love him with all my heart.”

I'm not good at these sorts of conversations, and any response that comes into my mind probably won't be the right thing to let out of my mouth, but still I find myself saying, “Sure Taylor, but why?”

She looks at me with exasperation, as though I've asked her why the sky is blue. She sighs as she draws on her stores of tolerance for the young and stupid. “Oh Sylvia. You don't ask questions like that. Love just is. When you've been in love some day you'll understand.”

I sit up on the bed. Now I'm mad. I hate it when people talk to me like this, especially someone who's only one year ahead of me. “Yeah, but don't you need to
like
him too? What's to like about Franco?”

Taylor glares at me. “Franco's likable,” she insists. After a few seconds she adds, “Physically he's very attractive.”

I try not to choke. I try not to let the disgust show on my face, but I guess it does anyway because Taylor turns away and I can tell that she's hurt. I'm mad at myself for hurting her, and I'm mad at Taylor for being hurt, for after all I haven't said anything critical of her. Quite the opposite, it's because I think so highly of Taylor that I can't understand why she'd pair up with a lump like Franco.

She touches a fingertip to the glass over Franco's thin lips. “Plus I admire his dedication to sports, and how he takes good care of his body. It's not simple to get as strong as he is. He has to do research, and then he orders special nutritional supplements over the Internet.” She pauses for a long time, so I almost believe she's completed the list of Franco's attributes, pathetic as it is. Then she says, “And he likes me.” She says this as though it's the icing on the cake, the inarguable justification for her loving the big turkey.

I can't help myself—I'm enraged. “Of course he likes you!” I say. “You're totally likable. Only a moron wouldn't like you. If Franco liked someone like me it might be significant.” I cringe inside. I hadn't meant to take the conversation this direction. It sounds like I'm feeling sorry for myself, and I'm not.

Of course Taylor takes it the wrong way. “Would you like him to like you?” she says. “Because I don't mind if you have a crush on him, I would totally understand.”

“Are you kidding?” I say before I can stop myself. And before Taylor can figure out whether to be hurt again or not, I quickly add, “I'm scared of Franco. He's so big.”

I've saved the day. Taylor smiles. “Franco's not scary. He's a big softy. I think he's like Spike. He's misunderstood and doesn't always fit in very well with others.”

I will my eyes not to roll. It feels like they might fall out of my head with the effort. It's all I can do to not remind Taylor that Spike is part-donkey, yet another quality he has in common with Franco, but I figure Spike has been insulted enough.

“Besides,” says Taylor, “don't you like Franco's brother Logan?”

Oh no. What have I started? I'm not ready to talk about this. I'm barely ready to think about it in the privacy of my own head.

Taylor says, “Franco's been really worried about Logan. Until you appeared on the scene he figured Logan was gay. He was sure the kids at school would find out and make Logan's life miserable.”

“Really?” I say. “No one could make Logan's life miserable. He turns everything into a joke. Everybody likes him.”

“There's another side to Franco. You should give him a chance,” says Taylor.

I'm saved from having to respond by a light tapping at the door, and Mom saying, “Honey, we have to go. The frozen yoghurt will be melting in the car.”

She doesn't need to convince me. I bolt from the bed, only pausing long enough before opening the door to give Taylor a chance to slide her chemistry text over top of the animal communication book. Maybe it's a good thing she's taken such an interest in animal communication. This must be what's given her the skill to communicate with a supplement-eating meatball like Franco.

But in the silence of the drive home, with Mom sniffing at the steering wheel and not wanting to talk for once in her life, I have the opportunity to reconsider my opinion. If Taylor is psychic, she may have sensed good things in Franco that a social misfit like me wouldn't notice in a million years. And Taylor is such a wonderful kind person she will be a positive influence on him. Taylor will bring out the best in him.

She's right, I do need to give Franco a second chance.

chapter
eighteen

We have Chinese take-out for dinner. Isobel insisted, she didn't want any fuss or bother. She and Grandpa arrived at the door at five o'clock with two huge bags of the stuff. Fortunately Mom hadn't started her own preparations yet. She just said thank you then took the containers into the kitchen to stick in the oven to keep warm.

Now the dining room table is cluttered with cardboard boxes and aluminum trays.

“Dad, I didn't know you liked Chinese,” says Mom as Grandpa loads up his plate.

“I didn't until Isobel came along. She showed me how to order the good stuff. Before that I never knew there was anything other than sweet and sour chicken balls.”

Grandpa looks younger than last time I saw him a couple of months ago. He's less grey somehow. He smiles all the time and there's more colour in his cheeks. He's dressing better too. There's not a single stain on his shirt and he's wearing new pants that come all the way down to the top of his shoes so his bony ankles and white socks don't show when he walks.

“Don't you worry about the sodium and saturated fat levels?” says Mom. I guess she hasn't noticed how much healthier Grandpa is looking.

“Isobel's the health and nutrition expert. I leave all that up to her,” says Grandpa.

“You're a doctor?” says Dad.

“Oh no,” says Isobel. “Doctors don't know anything about nutrition! I worked in the hospital kitchen in Regina for several years.”

“She ran the whole place,” says Grandpa.

“Oh, Henry, I did not,” says Isobel. “And I'm retired now.”

“Hospital Employees' Union member?” says Dad. “I suppose you're locked into an employee pension fund?”

“Tony!” says Mom.

“What?” says Dad. “I was only asking a question.”

Grandpa says, “I met Isobel on the plane on my way home from my last visit here. She'd been staying with her son, taking care of him for a while after his marriage fell apart.” He leans over and gives her a peck on the cheek, which I think is quite cute, but Mom looks away.

Isobel turns to Grandpa, dropping her chin so she can see over her glasses. She raises her eyebrows, which are not real but drawn on, which is pretty weird, but what really strikes me is how pointy her nose is. It's not so obvious from the front, but in profile, it's truly incredible. She must have been teased terribly when she was a kid.

Isobel pats Grandpa on the arm. “Easy there, Tiger,” she says. “You control yourself in front of the children. And grandchild.” She smiles in my direction, then looks back at Grandpa.

I think I like Isobel.

Grandpa growls at her. He's gone quite silly, though I suppose this is an improvement over how he was going before, which was downhill fast into senile dementia.

“Isobel saved my life,” says Grandpa.

“Hardly that,” says Isobel.

“You did!” says Grandpa. “I was growing old before my time. You were the one who suggested I have my testosterone levels checked.”

“My first husband struggled terribly with andropause,” Isobel explains to the rest of us.

“What?” says Dad.

“It's the male equivalent of the female menopause,” says Isobel.

Grandpa drags his eyes off Isobel to include us all in his testimonial, whether we want to be or not. “Now I'm on the patch. Transdermal testosterone replacement therapy. Feel like my old self. I used the hormone cream from the compounding pharmacy for a while, but darned if Isobel wasn't contaminated somehow, and we couldn't have that could we?” He chuckles and gazes at Isobel the same way Kansas and Declan make puppy eyes at each other.

Mom squirms. Dad looks angry as usual. He used to have a more normal range of emotional responses; now he only has this one, so Mom and I live in a constant state of yellow alert. I wish there was a way of warning Grandpa and Isobel.

“I was irritable, my strength was going, I had no stamina, and little…er…appetite for…er…life,” says Grandpa, glancing warily in my direction. I try to look like I don't know exactly what he's talking about even though, unfortunately, I do. Then it hits me like a freight train, how I've heard all this before.

“Just like Dad!” I say.

A great heavy silence descends upon the dining room table. Now what have I done? I've made this great discovery that explains everything and no one's happy about it.

“Oh good lord,” says Mom eventually, her voice cracking.

“Mom?” I say. Why should she be on the verge of tears?

She doesn't look at me. She speaks as though to the chandelier over the table. “I thought it was something else, I thought there was something going on.”

Isobel nods. “Most wives do,” she says. “It can be a great relief, sidestepping all that blame, self-recrimination and guilt.”

What are they talking about?

“My testosterone levels are fine,” says Dad. There are veins showing on his forehead.

“No, wait Dad, remember how you got so mad you threw my bike across the yard, and you've had road-rage, and you said yourself you aren't so hungry at dinner, and your golf isn't going so well because you've lost your power on the fairways.” I won't add the other thing, about no making up with Mom in the bedroom. I know better than to say that out loud, or even hint at it.

But I might as well have said it, I might as well have got it all off my chest and really stirred up the hornets nest, because Dad's eyes are shrinking back into his head. We've slipped past yellow and we're deep into amber alert. I steady myself on my chair. I weight my seat bones equally and stretch my back tall, just like I do on Brooklyn, even though last time I did this it only seemed to make Dad worse.

“It's a simple test,” says Grandpa. “Your GP can order blood work. Or you can have a saliva test done through some pharmacies, that's what Isobel did.”

“I didn't know I had so much spit in me,” says Isobel, laughing. She's trying to divert Grandpa's attention, but he doesn't notice.

“You might be surprised,” he tells Dad. “I've done lots of research about it now. There are many men out there suffering needlessly with low testosterone levels. Including young fellas like you.”

“Not me,” says Dad.

Isobel reaches over and rubs Dad's arm. “I'm sure not,” she says, but her tone says she doesn't believe him at all and that she understands he's not ready to know the truth yet.

This is not a good strategy to use with my dad.

He glares at Isobel's offending hand and drags his arm out of her reach. His fingers come to rest on his table knife. I so wish he'd used the little wooden chopsticks like the rest of us.

I have to do something before someone is killed.

“I saw a sasquatch, when I was out riding,” I say.

Four pairs of eyes stare at me in another great silence that stretches on and on until Isobel coughs softly into her napkin.

Mom says, “Oh, Honey, I thought you'd outgrown this stage. Though I suppose some regression is understandable during family stress.”

Isobel cocks her head and blinks at Mom as if she'd just spoken two lines of Martian.

Grandpa looks thoughtful.

Dad, of course, is angry. “Oh for god's sake, Sylvie. The sasquatch is a myth. There's no such thing. Just like UFOs.”

“They're not a myth. Mr. Losino knows all about them—he's a wildlife biologist. And I saw one. You can't see myths,” I say.

“There has been no evidence. Show me one body,” says Dad.

“They're nocturnal,” I say. “And intelligent. And shy. Mountain gorillas weren't discovered until 1902, and they can't run as fast as sasquatches.”

Dad leans back in his chair and closes his eyes. I think he's counting to ten; I wish he'd shoot for a hundred—that might bring his blood pressure back under control.

I don't know what else to say. I stare at my placemat.

Grandpa says, “You know, Tony, Pipsqueak has a point here—just because a species hasn't been officially catalogued doesn't mean it can't exist.”

“Stay out of this, Henry,” says Dad. He stabs the tabletop between us repeatedly with an emphatic index finger. “Sylvia, you saw a bear. That's bad enough, that you came across one of those when you were out riding. What did Kansas do?” He picks up his knife and fork and attacks a chunk of pork on his plate.

I'm not going to tell him that Brooklyn and I were out on our own. I'm not going to get Kansas in trouble, and I'm not going to get myself in more trouble. I pull my lips tight against my teeth and don't answer.

Grandpa says, “I saw one once, crossing a harvested corn field. Scared the bejesus out of me. Must have been fifty years ago, but I'll never forget it.”

Dad's knife and fork crash on his plate. He shoves back his chair and leaves the table. The chandelier makes happy tinkling noises when he slams the front door.

Isobel raises her painted eyebrows.

Mom struggles to retrieve a tissue from her pocket, but it comes out in long shreds. “Oh hell,” she says, and departs for the kitchen.

“Henry, you haven't told me you saw a sasquatch,” says Isobel.

“I stopped telling people a long time ago. Got nothing but ridicule. I suppose I put it out of my mind until Pips here reminded me,” says Grandpa.

They're acting as though nothing has happened, as though all our family drama is of no more significance than something on reality TV. Maybe they're right. It has nothing to do with them, they didn't do anything wrong, it's not their fault. I look from one of them to the other. Maybe it's not my fault either.

I say, “Mr. Losino wants me to take him to the place where I saw it. He's hoping there will be some tracks that he can cast. Or maybe he'll find some hair.”

“For DNA analysis?” says Isobel.

“Only if a follicle is attached. Even then there are problems,” I say. It's so nice to be taken seriously. It's great to be able to talk about everything I learned from Mr. Losino. I could give both of them such a big hug. “Would you like to come with us? It would be a long walk.” I know they're old and maybe they can't walk all the way to the river, but I wouldn't mind going so much if more people were with me. “Mr. Losino wouldn't mind. And Logan would come too. Logan is my…” I can't say it out loud. I just can't.

“Friend?” says Isobel.

I sure hope Grandpa marries her, soon, before he dies.