Heartache and Other Natural Shocks (31 page)

“You cheated on her,” I say. “That’s not drifting.”

“Jules, come on …”

“When did this start?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to
me
!”

Dad shrugs. “Almost two years.”

“Two years?” I stare at him. “Dad, that girl is half your age! It’s like you’re dating our babysitter.”

“Stop it!” he barks. “The marriage is over. I know it’s sad, but we have to move on. And the fact is, you’re older now. You don’t need me that much anymore. We’re all starting a new chapter.”

“You’re abandoning us!”

“I’m not abandoning you!” he shouts. “I love you. You’re my children. You’re the most important thing in the world to me.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” I mutter.

Dad slams his fist on the steering wheel. “You think this is easy for me? You think I didn’t struggle with this? The whole family is against me. Nobody’s giving Monique a chance. And it’s not her fault. She’s a gem. Smart. Funny. We’re good for
each other. And she wants to get to know you kids. Next time you come, we’ll all go out for dinner.”

Is he kidding? I almost laugh. I picture us at the House of Wong eating pineapple chicken and fried wonton with all the other Jewish families craning their necks to stare at us. Bobby, me, Dad and the nubile Monique, who will stick out like a sore thumb. The husbands will take a long hard look at her, and the wives will sneer and order extra plum sauce. I almost pity her. Does she realize what she’s getting into? Aunt Rose will call her the bimbo. And what will she do at Passover dinners? Will anyone even speak to her? Does Dad actually think that just because he’s smitten with her, everyone else should line up and accept this? Well, he’s an idiot if he believes that. Because I’m going to hate her for the rest of my life.

“I just want to know one thing,” I say. “When we moved, did you know you were never coming?”

Dad hesitates. “I wasn’t sure. Your mom thought we should try again … but … well …”

He’s not even a good liar. “You knew,” I say. “You knew the whole time. You just didn’t have the courage to try.”

Dad pulls up to Windsor Station. He turns off the motor and looks at me. “I know this is hard on you,” he says, “but you’ll adjust. And you can visit us anytime. I’ll buy you a ticket. Just name the date. Poopsie? Okay?” He looks at me with pleading eyes.

I shove my door open. Dad lumbers to the trunk and grabs my hockey bag. “I’m sorry,” he says as he passes it to me. “When you’re older, you’ll understand.” What a stupid thing to say. I’ll never understand this. He tries to hug me, but I push past him. He calls out, “You’re still my favorite girl.” I just keep on walking.

On the train, I get a window seat. The whistle shrieks. The engine hisses. The train clanks and lurches ahead. Hamlet whispers into my ear:
“How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable / Seem to me all the uses of this world!”
We pass through the shadowed alleys of the city. It’s hard to believe that, only yesterday, I saw everything in reverse.

The city gives way to open fields flecked with scraps of hardened snow. Lakes, like mirrors, shine with silvery light. The sky is a pearly blue. The train rocks me in its steely arms. A lady beside me passes me tissues. She says, “All things pass in time, dear.” But I have no use for platitudes. I will never live in Montreal again, and I will never love my father again, at least not the way I used to.

At Union Station, I step off the train, light-headed and hollowed out. I feel like a stranger returning from a long journey, like I’ve been away for two years instead of two days. I take the subway and bus back to the McDuff house. In the early evening light, the houses shimmer in a pink glow. The
air is soft, and the neighborhood is quiet. The street is empty—deserted, or maybe enchanted. It’s as if, while I was away, everyone was put under a magical sleeping spell, but now, when I put my key back into the lock, life will resume as if no time has passed at all.

It’s only when I reach the front door that I realize I don’t have my house key. I left it on my mother’s pillow, a symbolic token of my departure. Mom and Bobby aren’t back till Monday. The only spare key is at the Cabriellis’. They’re away for the long weekend, but Ian’s motorcycle is in the driveway, so I guess Carla must be home.

I knock on the door. Carla answers. She’s the last person I want to see right now, and I can tell the feeling is mutual. I explain about the key. She doesn’t invite me in. “I’ll check the kitchen drawer,” she says, disappearing into the house.

Ian steps into the hall. He’s surprised to see me. Yeah, how humiliating. He says, “I thought you were moving away.”

I shrug. Carla can’t find the key. In the kitchen, I try to phone Geoff, but there’s no answer. Carla and Ian stare at me. I guess I must look pretty beat. And, obviously, I have nowhere to go.

Ian says, “You can hang out here. We’re having a party tonight.”

“What?” Carla says.

“I invited people,” Ian says.

“Well, uninvite them!” Carla orders.

“Carla, chill. Your parents are away.”

Carla glares at him. “I don’t care. This is my house. I don’t want a party. We have plans.” Ian shrugs. He takes three beers out of the fridge. He passes one to me, and I go downstairs. Carla and Ian yell at each other in the kitchen. I curl up on the couch and cover my ears. I drink a beer. I close my eyes, but sleep won’t come.

“You Can’t Always Get What You Want”

At eleven o’clock, Ma’s house is littered with beer bottles, cigarettes and garbage. Ian, Jim and a bunch of band groupies are in the basement with the music cranked up. The entire cast and crew of
Hamlet
is here. Julia Epstein is here. Even Mary, the frumpy little sewing elf is here. Yup, Ian invited everyone. My home is a bloody three-ring circus. And me, I’m sitting in the kitchen, eating my way through an entire frozen Pepperidge Farm chocolate layer cake. So far, I’ve eaten a third of it, and I’m not sharing it with anyone.

Marlene and Debbie stare at me, disgusted.

Mar says, “You’re going to be sick.”

“If I am, I’ll be sure to puke all over Ian,” I say. Deb and Mar exchange looks. “I’m breaking up with him. I’ve had it.”

Marlene laughs. “You always say that.”

“This time I mean it.”

“That’s what you said the last time,” Deb says, smirking.

I stab my fork into my cake. Debbie and Marlene light cigarettes. One of the band groupies stumbles into the room. “Is it somebody’s birthday today?” she asks.

“Get lost, Barbie,” I say, scowling.

“I’m not Barbie,” the girl says, confused. I roll my eyes, and Marlene snickers.

The girl puts her hand on her hip. “Well, you don’t have to be so rude, you know.”

I glare at her. “For your information, this is my house, and I am not in a party mood. I have an important show to do next week. So, why don’t you make like a bee and buzz off?” The girl grabs a beer and prances downstairs. No one in this joint is listening to me.

By midnight, the whole house is vibrating. I wander around checking for damage. I stub out cigarettes and put coasters under beer bottles. I find a greasy half-eaten chicken leg on the carpet. Has nobody here ever heard of a plate? And where is the rest of the goddamn chicken? Sherrie Cumberland and Paul are making out on the couch. The basement is dark and stinks of weed. In the upstairs bathroom, four kids I don’t even know are leaning over the sink doing lines of coke.

“Get out,” I say. They ignore me. I pick up my hair dryer and crank it up, full blast. “If you’re not out in five seconds,” I tell them, “you’ll be sucking coke and pubic hairs off the floor.” That gets their attention. They swear at me and leave.

I retreat to my bedroom and close the door. I take off my jeans and crawl under the covers. I light up a ciggie and smoke in bed. I’m wearing my new black lace underwear. It
was going to be a surprise for Ian. This was supposed to be
our
weekend. No parents, no Buzz, just him and me. I have a bottle of Black Tower wine in the fridge—well, somebody probably drank that by now—and I was going to make us a romantic dinner. And it’s not like he didn’t know about it. And yeah, I know he really likes me. When we’re good, we’re really great. But half the time, it’s no good at all, and I’m so tired of pretending.

I chain-smoke in bed, and sure enough, Ian shows up eventually, like he always does when he wants something. He’s like a wild animal; he only comes when he’s hungry. And when he’s hungry, there he is at my door, rubbing up against me like a cat in heat. He has a joint in one hand and what’s left of Papa’s cognac in the other. He shuts the door with a bump of his hip. He looks at me with those bedroom eyes. And yeah, he has a gift for sex, the way some people have a gift for music. I think about how easy it would be to whip off the covers and show him my black lace underwear. He’d jump my bones and stay all night. Tomorrow, we’d wake up in each other’s arms. And then we’d have sex all over again. But that’s just some bullshit love story.

I don’t even bother yelling at him. “Go away,” I say. “I don’t want to see you anymore.”

“Carla, let’s make love, not war,” he says. He gives me the peace sign and tries to climb into bed. I shove him off, and he pretends to look offended. He says, “Hey, baby, you’re
not going to slug me again, are you?” He laughs, like he’s some hilarious stand-up comedian. He leans on my desk and grins at me. “Come on, don’t be mad,” he says. “Life’s too short not to party.”

“And who’s going to clean up this dump tomorrow?” I ask.

“I’ll help you,” he says.

“Yeah, right. You’ll take off, like you always do. You only stick around for the fun.”

“Hey, that’s not fair.”

“I know you, Ian.”

Ian laughs. He takes a swig of cognac. “Carla, you don’t
really
know me. No one really knows anybody.”

Oh, so now he’s Mr. Mysterious? Mr. Drunken Philosopher? Does he think I don’t know what goes on in his little pea brain? Okay, I’ll bite. I sit up in bed. “You want me to tell you who you are?” I list his traits on my fingers, one by one. “You’re selfish, you’re a loner, you’re mean, you’re irresponsible, you think you’re hot shit, you’d rather fight than talk, you don’t have a clue about how to treat women, and you act like you don’t care about anyone. But everybody cares about someone, even you.”

Ian smirks and starts to undo his belt. “And who do I care about, hmm?”

He expects me to say
me
. But instead, I say, “Your mother. Your flaky alcoholic mother.”

The smile drops off Ian’s face. “You don’t know fuck-all,” he says.

“Yeah? Well, I know when I’m playing a losing game. And I know when to fold.”

“Meaning what?” Ian snarls.

“Meaning I don’t want to see you anymore.” I take a shaky drag of my cigarette. I look straight ahead, avoiding his eyes. I pinch my thigh hard under the covers. I will not cry. I will not cry.

Ian walks over to the bed and stares at me. “Why are you always trying to change me?” he sneers. “You and all your stupid rules. You want me to fit into this nice little package, but I don’t fit in. Never did. And you can’t fix it.” His voice is raw, like it hurts to talk. He shifts on his feet. “So, you want to break up? Fine. Works for me. I’ve had enough of this shit.” He waits for a second, then he walks out the door.

And even though I hate his guts, I throw the covers over my head and sob, ’cause “
L’amore domina senza regole
”—love rules without rules. And I love him, even if he’s bad for me. He’s my drug of choice. He’s the fix I need. But I’m not going back anymore. I’m cutting him loose, and I’m not changing my mind.

“Walk on the Wild Side”

I wonder if it’s the crying that makes me thirsty. Maybe losing all that water out of my eyes makes my mouth go dry, and maybe that’s why the beer tastes so good. And the next beer. And the next. By the time I reach Geoff on the phone, I am drunk, which is good because the pain in my heart isn’t nearly so, well, painful. It’s numb. Like in a deep freeze. A cryogenic chamber. Yes, my heart is being kept alive, but at a very, very cold temperature so it can’t get upset about what a schmuck my dad is. I try to explain this to Geoff on the phone. I’m yelling into the phone about that little slut, Monique, but it’s hard to hear with all this party noise.