Island Girl (5 page)

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Authors: Lynda Simmons

BOOK: Island Girl
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“As tempted as I am,” I said. “I’m really not dressed for the occasion. Maybe next time, but for now keep your wallet handy because the waitress is coming back.”
Sure enough, she set a grilled cheese sandwich in front of Ruby and another in the spot across from her. For me, no doubt because any minute now I was going to break down and go inside. Admit I’d been a horrible daughter and accept her goddamn grilled cheese offering.
“She hasn’t changed at all,” I told Mark, and turned my back on her. Watched another streetcar rumble past and wanted nothing more than to be on it. Heading west toward the Duck and a Car Bomb and anything else anybody wanted to buy for me. Except the waiter. I think his name is Grant or Greg or maybe it’s Steve. At any rate, he’s around my age, he’s okay to look at, and we both know he’d take me home if I let him. But I won’t because he’s a nice guy.
He’ll think he can help me, change me, even fall in love and want to marry me, and I won’t be able to say no. I can never say no, and I refuse to show up at the pawn shop with wedding ring number three. The last thing I need is a customer appreciation card from Fast Eddie’s.
I was surprised to see Mr. Lau coming out of the Donut King again, motioning me to come back this minute. I gave him the finger. “Fuck you, Mr. Lau. And your day-old crullers.” I turned my back on him too. “I just lost my job,” I told Mark. “And you owe me twenty bucks.”
“I’m on my way. Stay there and keep an eye on your mother. What’s she doing now?”
I pressed closer to the glass, cupped my fingers around my eyes. “Dipping her sandwich into the ketchup. Dabbing her mouth with the napkin. I’d forgotten how prissy she can be.”
“Liz, I’ll give you a hundred dollars if you go in and sit with her.”
Now he was playing dirty. “I’m hanging up.”
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry. I’m almost there. Don’t leave, all right?”
My mother put her napkin down and turned her head. Looked straight into my eyes, I swear. I couldn’t move, couldn’t think. Just stood there. Face pressed to the window. Unable to turn away. Waiting for God knew what while my heart beat too hard, too fast.
She went back to her tea and suddenly I was walking, getting as far as the Donut King and then heading back to Fran’s. Making my way to the King again and then turning around. I did it twice more before I finally parked myself outside Fran’s once and for all and put my back to that bloody window. Perhaps I couldn’t leave, but I’d be damned if I’d go inside. Let her come to me if it was that important.
I jumped when the door beside me opened. Two men stepped through. The door closed. Ruby was still at her table. Had I really expected anything else?
“Liz? What’s going on?” Mark asked.
“Nothing,” I said into the phone. “But you know what I hate most about this? I hate the way people think Alzheimer’s grants a person immunity. A kind of moral ‘get out of jail free’ card, relieving them of all responsibility for the mess they’ve created.”
“Your mother isn’t relieved of the mess. She just needs your help to fix it.”
“Why should I?”
“Because she’s your mother.”
“Not good enough.”
“She’s losing her mind, for God’s sake. She doesn’t deserve this.”
“Yes she does. If you ask me, this Alzheimer’s thing is divine justice. A cosmic ‘Up your ass, Ruby Donaldson.’ The only tragedy in all of this is that no matter what Ruby does, Grace will be screwed.”
“I was going to talk to you about Grace ...”
“I’m sure you were, so let me save you some time. I know Grace won’t be able to handle Ruby, but if my mother is hoping I’ll move back and be the next Donaldson chatelaine, then she has deteriorated faster than I would have imagined possible. I promised myself that I would never again set foot in that rat hole on Ward’s Island. Since I have no intention of disappointing myself any more than I already have, there is nothing further to discuss. When the time comes, I’ll figure out what to do about Grace. And you still owe me twenty bucks.”
I pushed End, but the stupid thing started hollering a moment later.
Answer your goddamn phone!
This time I switched it off and glanced over my shoulder into the restaurant. Ruby had finished her sandwich and mine was now wearing a silver cover to keep it warm. The loving mom looking out for her wayward daughter.
The waitress brought apple pie and more hot water. Dinner was almost over. Night would soon be upon us, bringing music and dancing and enough alcohol to keep any woman happy. Suddenly I was so thirsty I couldn’t wait a moment longer.
Another streetcar rumbled to a stop behind me.
Ding, ding
. All aboard for the Mucky Duck
. Ding, ding. Ding, ding.
I yanked off the hairnet and lowered the zipper at the front of my uniform. Then I walked across the road to the streetcar and climbed the stairs. Dropped my token into the box and went straight to the back door, ready to hop off when the moment was right. Car Bombs awaited. Men were out in force. And I had no intention of spending tonight alone.
GRACE
 
My mom would have a fit if she knew I was here. I don’t do it to make her life miserable, I just like to watch the planes. Love to see them charging down the runway like they’re going to fall in the water for sure, and then suddenly
whoosh
, they’re up in the air and gone to Halifax or Montreal or even New York City. When I was little, I asked my mother where they were going and she said, “Straight to hell, Grace, straight to hell,” but I knew she was lying. Even then, I knew those planes were taking people someplace good. And one day I could be on one.
Of course, my mother would be happy if no one ever got on those planes. And she’d be even happier if one of them
did
fall into the water because like most people on the Island, she hates the airport. She’s what Liz calls a diehard and she still goes to the protests all the time.
I know enough to keep quiet when she starts going on about noise levels and bird sanctuaries and all the other reasons why the airport should be closed. I just listen and nod because I never could talk the way she does. Never could explain properly why I think she’s wrong. And when she asks me for a
cogent argument
, I get confused and say stupid things like “Oh yeah?” and “That’s just dumb” and she tells me that isn’t a
cogent argument
, that’s just yelling. “You need to know what you’re talking about, Grace. You need a
cogent argument
if you’re going to take a stand like that.”
So I keep my mouth shut because I probably don’t know what I’m talking about. I just like to watch the planes. And if they were to suddenly stop flying, I’d probably cry because it would mean the ferries are the only way out of here, and I’ll never get to the city again.
I used to live over there with Liz. She had a condominium at Bloor and St. George. A really small place. My mom never saw it, but she said she could imagine it. “Those places are all the same, Grace. Just shoe boxes. Cramped and tacky shoe boxes.”
But Liz called her condo a
jewel box
and it was. A little jewel box with a ruby red sofa and black tables. I missed that place when I moved in with Bobby Daniels. Missed the Downy-fresh smell of Liz’s sheets and the way my head would sink into her pillows that were too soft to be good for me. I missed Liz when I was with Bobby, and I missed my mom all the time. And even though it’s been two years since I came back to the Island, I still miss the baby.
But I’m seeing Liz this very morning. She’s coming on the 10:00 A.M. ferry to Hanlan’s Point. And I’m going to meet her here by the statue of Ned Hanlan, the rower who beat everyone in the world, even the smug Americans and the well-trained British.
Most people don’t know it, but there was this one time when Ned was rowing against this big American champion and the gun went off, and Ned rowed out so fast he left the champion way behind. So he came back and rowed with him for a while, then he took off again. Then he stopped and waited for the American to catch up, and he still beat him by three lengths. Drove the other guy crazy.
He was really something, that Ned Hanlan. Just a little guy, but he was a genuine hero here on the Island. That’s why when I had to come back home two years ago, Liz made me promise that as soon as I could ride my bike again, we’d meet at Ned’s statue every Thursday from April to October and she would always bring a bucket of KFC.
I really like KFC, but my mother won’t have it in the house. “That stuff will kill you, Grace.” But like Liz says, “We’re all gonna die someday. Might as well go with eleven different herbs and spices in your belly.”
The ferry docked, the ramp came down, and there was my sister at the front of the line like always, strutting down the ramp in a short skirt and platform shoes, picnic basket in one hand, beach bag and chicken in the other. People flowed around her like water. Men laughing and walking close together. Mothers with little kids in strollers and bigger kids running ahead. But Liz never once took her eyes off me.
“How’s my baby sister?” she called once her shoes hit dry land.
My mother always tells people I’m the pretty one, but I don’t know how she can say that. For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to look like Liz. Wanted to be a beautiful gypsy with black, black hair and eyes to match. Wanted to wear red lipstick and throw my head back and laugh the way she did, and give my mother the finger every time she said “You do realize you sound like a hyena.” I never thought Liz sounded like a hyena. I thought she sounded happy. But sometimes she was just drunk.
“I’m fine,” I called, and jammed my bike into the rack and started running because Liz was going to need a hand. Not only does she bring the chicken, she also brings the blanket and the salads and the drinks because I can never bring anything. If I left the house with more than my binoculars and my bird book, my mom would know I was up to something. And if she found out that something was Liz, she wouldn’t let me have Thursdays off anymore.
She thinks I spend the day bird-watching. That was Liz’s idea. When I was finally allowed to ride my bike again, she told me to tell my mom I wanted to try bird-watching. Called it the perfect excuse for spending Thursday’s on my own. My mom was happy I was taking up a hobby, and when she handed me
The ROM Field Guide to Birds of Ontario
and a pair of binoculars, I felt a little guilty. But Liz said, “Don’t be ridiculous. She brought this on herself.”
I started riding my bike on the first day of July—exactly one year ago today. And that very afternoon, Liz and I sat on the beach together for the first time in years, laughing and eating chicken and deciding which bird I’d seen that day.
It was the same every Thursday after that. “How about the green-winged teal?” Liz might say. Or “The black vulture sounds good to me.” Then I’d write down the name of our bird of the day in my notebook and tell my mom all about my adventure when I got home.
At first I was nervous because she liked to ask questions, liked to
make me think
. “Are you sure, Grace, because I don’t think the yellow-throated swallow comes this far north.”
Of course I wasn’t sure so I started reading that book. Every day and every night, I read about birds. Then I found these websites where you can listen to what they sound like and see videos of them walking around and sitting in their nests. I spent so much time reading and listening that soon my mom stopped questioning me because we both knew she couldn’t make a
cogent argument
about whether or not I’d seen a blackpoll warbler, even if she wanted to.
And that fall, when the ferry stopped running and Liz couldn’t get to Hanlan’s anymore, I started to really look for the birds, and now I find them all the time. Big ones, little ones, some that only come in the spring, and some that hardly come at all. You just never know what’s out there!
Like this morning, when I was passing the lighthouse on my way to the airport and I heard a bird I’d never heard before singing and singing and singing I knew the 6:55 A.M. to Montreal would be taking off soon, but that bird was so loud I had to have a look. So I hopped off my bike and grabbed my binoculars.
I spotted a couple of phoebes and a nuthatch, and even a Lincoln sparrow I’d been looking for since Monday, but no matter how hard I searched, I could not spot that one noisy bird. So I wrote
Lincoln sparrow
in my notebook—because it’s not a find until you see it—then I got back on my bike and made it to the fence just in time to see the Montreal flight lifting off.
That noisy bird was still singing when I was on my way home and again when I was coming back to meet Liz. I couldn’t stop then, so I was hoping I could talk her into having a look with me after our picnic.
“Nice T-shirt,” she said, setting down her beach bag and pulling me in for a one-armed hug. She smelled of coconut sunscreen and fried chicken—the two scents that mean summer to me now. She stepped back and studied my shirt, that big smile returning to her face. “Looks like vintage Greenpeace. Is it new?”
“New for me,” I said, pulling the shirt away to look down at the baby seals lined up across the front. I only shop at the Bridge Boutique, the little wagon at the foot of the Algonquin Island Bridge. All the clothes are donated, so I don’t have to pay for them and people like to see their T-shirts walking around again.
I always loved that one,
they’ll say. Or
Grace, you do me proud in that
, and I like that they’re still smiling when I leave.

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