Year of the Chick (15 page)

He laughed. “My life is kind of like a vacation, wouldn’t you agree? But seriously though, I tend to write in blocks and it depends on what I am working on. I usually take a six-week break after completing an intense project like a film or similar.”

“Uh-huh,” I said nodding.
Should I be writing all this down?

“In fact I’ve planned a break in June.”

June? But that’s so soon!

“Speaking of which,” he continued, “I won’t be around much from this weekend as I’m off to Italy for a while. Hopefully the sprawling piazzas and blue-green waters will be good for inspiration. This film isn’t going to write itself.” He sighed. “I have padded out the ideas but I need to make some headway with it.”

Okay, so maybe it won’t be a visit in June.

The mention of his script switched my busy brain straight into writing-mode. I could never get enough of hearing his writing stories, or travel stories, or anything stories. A single strand of his hair was more exciting than my whole life.

By the time our conversation ended, I felt like we had reached a new plateau.
We’re just two compatible souls who happen to be apart. But how do we get together?

The pressure of meeting was clouded by a more immediate truth. The one where I couldn’t even speak to him on weekends.

Lucky for me he was headed to Italy, which gave me plenty of time to stall.

***

The next few weeks hummed along in a blissful manner. James e-mailed me often while in Italy, which really kept me company with Laura also away (off in France, enjoying a vacation with her cousins).

But with all those nights staying in, Amy and Eleanor started to wonder what was up. Wasn’t I looking for a guy after all? I was, but now I had an Internet one.

So after nearly three weeks of changing the subject, I told them the story as I’d once told Laura. Only this time it was full of encouraging highlights.

As I shared each important detail that day, I could almost see a flicker of pity in their eyes. It surprised me. Didn’t they know how lucky I was? I’d even shown them some pictures of his face and bulging muscles. Were they blind? Maybe they just couldn’t see the possibility of love by unconventional means (
The Internet: not just for pervs anymore!
)

When I told the same news to Todd (because I couldn’t hide my joy from work-dad Todd), he had a totally different reaction: “I’m gonna screen him the second he gets here. I also know some people in Europe. Do you want me to send them to Barcelona? To scope this fucker out?”

I assured all of them this guy was for real, so in the end they could only wish me luck. And they did, but those looks of concern stuck around.

What’s their problem?

***

On a hot and humid Monday evening, I turned the car into my street, only to find my father’s van in the driveway.

What the hell is HE doing here? And why after work? I’m supposed to call James in ten minutes!

I was already nervous about calling James, since he was back from Italy and sure to bring up weekend chatting again. But a surprise visit from my parents? Nothing good could come from this.

I quietly opened the door, and looked down the hall to find my parents at the kitchen table, papers scattered everywhere.

Wait a minute. Are those real estate papers?

But that would mean they’d found a new house already, six months before the January estimate.

Impossible.

But nothing bad is ever impossible…

Chapter Twelve

I entered the kitchen with a cautious set of baby steps.

Those are not real estate contracts on the table. They are not, they are not, THEY ARE NOT.

“Romi, come in here and sign these contracts!”

Fuck!

I was five feet away from the kitchen table, but I didn’t move another inch. My thoughts were a bit of a blur, but I knew if I stood there frozen, I wouldn’t be able to reach far enough to grab the pen. Which meant I wouldn’t be able to sign the forms, which meant that everything in life would stay the same.

“Come in here,” my father repeated, as he straightened the collar of his shirt. “You have to sign these forms in seven different places.” His voice was leaving traces of annoyance in the air. “And did you even hear us when you walked inside? We sold our house back home! And we found the perfect house over here!” His annoyance disappeared, to be replaced with boyish glee.

“And it’s huge!” exclaimed my mother as she giggled. Since when did my mother giggle?

I had never seen my parents as happy as they seemed right now. So why did I feel like I had thirty days to live?

Do I even HAVE thirty days to live?

It was best to hear the facts, so I dropped my big satchel on the hardwood floor, and moved towards the kitchen just an inch at a time. “How did you sell the house so fast?” I was getting too close to the contracts now, so I slowly inched back.

“Someone came to see our house a few days ago,” said my father, as he folded the corners of the pages I needed to sign. “And they loved it so much, they made an offer on the spot. And their mortgage was approved this morning!” He looked up and smiled at my stoic face.

“What about this house you bought? I haven’t even seen it and you already decided? And how can you afford a new house, you haven’t even sold THIS house!” I raised my hands at these walls, these walls that had enabled so much drunken misbehavior.

“What is there to decide? It’s big, it has a beautiful yard, and it’s in a quiet neighbourhood. I couldn’t believe it was still for sale. A miracle!”

If by miracle he meant a horrifying twist of fate.

“And remember, you girls better help with the mortgage payments!” My mother narrowed her eyes as she looked my way. Was she staring at my face or the dollar sign in front of it?

“Yes, and that’s why you girls have to co-sign the contract.” My dad grabbed the shiny brass pen and stabbed the air in my direction. “Go ahead, sign!”

At the risk of painting the kitchen walls with vomit, I opened the fridge and pretended to look for a drink. The instant cool-off helped, but I still hadn’t asked the ultimate question that would seal my fate (or coffin).

“So...when are we moving?” My face was now deep inside the fridge, to hide myself in case I started weeping.

“Our buyer wants us out by August fifteenth,” said my father. “So two more months!”

So it wasn’t thirty days until the death of my soul, but a much more forgiving sixty-one. Was there some poison in this fridge that I could take?

“What are you doing in the fridge?” said my mother.

I’d had my head inside the fridge for ages, and for some odd reason I was clutching a carton of eggs.

“Nothing!” I closed the fridge and sped right out of the kitchen.

“Romi, SIGN the papers!”

“Can’t I change out of my work clothes first?” I thudded up the stairs like a petulant child.

Once in my room I paced back and forth and tried to cry. The tears would help me clear my head, and maybe help me figure out a way to get my James...and keep him.

Oh shit, James!

I looked at my watch and pictured him waiting by the phone at half past midnight. I was supposed to call fifteen minutes ago!

There was no way to call him now or even later, since my parents wouldn’t leave without my sister’s name signed in blood.

So I sent him an e-mail instead.

----------------------------------

Hey James,

Sorry I didn’t call, but I just walked through the door and I’m really beat. This long commute weighs me down sometimes. Can I call you in a couple of nights?

Sorry again,

Romi

----------------------------------

I hit “send” in a blur then took a little moment to breathe. I hated lying to James, but I couldn’t explain the truth in an e-mail.

My bigger problem now was a soul-crushing stack of papers. I changed into a T-shirt and some cotton pajama pants.
Airy clothing is best in the face of torture.
Then I made the ominous descent to the kitchen.

I thought about staging a revolt, and saying things really loudly the way Mel Gibson did in “Braveheart.” But what would I even say?

I didn’t have a plan, I didn’t have a script…I didn’t even have one Oscar-worthy line. So I signed all seven times.

Me and my parents, under one roof in two short months.

It was two hours later and I still couldn’t picture it. I tried to relax my brain as I took a long sip of spicy chai. It was my mother’s after-dinner specialty for guests, but I guess she was feeling like tonight deserved it too.

As I took the last sip I heard the front door slam.
Welcome to Hell, big sis.

She was home from another fake meeting I suppose, and she took in the news with a bit of a lively reaction. Like appalled mixed with intermittent anger.

I wanted to tell her “resistance is futile” but she had this “you can’t make me” expression, like a greasy toddler who doesn’t want a bath.

None of her questions even made a dent. Not when my parents were totally blinded. And I still didn’t know what this stupid house even looked like.

A half an hour later my sister let it go, embracing defeat with her signature emblazoned on seven different pages. All the while she looked like she was waiting to explode. Like she was trying to hold in…a secret?

My eyes opened wide once I’d figured it out. She had a dude! I’d never really given it a lot of thought, but how else would I explain her frequent nights out? I mean today it was nine o’ clock, but what about the nights until midnight or half past two?

As my parents at last left our place for a late drive home, I asked it: “So tell me right now: do you have a dude?”

She rolled her eyes. “Yeahhh, sure I do. Fuck off.”

I knew well enough not to press it any further (we had a history of getting into “slap fights”), but the truth was pretty clear. She totally had a dude. If only she’d shared this earlier, maybe we could’ve collaborated.

But did it really matter now?
 

We’d been solitary siblings from the start, and now it was much too late.
Live alone, die alone. With sixty-one days left to live...
               

***

The next day at work was reclusive and low in productivity. James had agreed to a phone call for the following night, but what kind of talk would it really be? How would he feel when I told him that in eight short weeks, we wouldn’t even talk at all?

I needed advice, and I already knew it wouldn’t come in the form of work friends. Eleanor and Amy had their eyes full of worry, and I wasn’t in the mood to prove them right.

Which was why I needed Laura. She was back from France and back on track with Mark, after getting more acquainted on her brother’s birthday night.

As for she and I? We were back to getting drinks and catching up.

***

I collapsed into a chair on a beautiful restaurant patio in Toronto’s richest neighbourhood. There were potted plants, comfy leather chairs and the sweetest summer breeze flowing in and out of trees for a constant pleasing rustle.

The fancy meals were definitely out of my price range. But a drink with a friend? That I could do.

Even if our talk was bound to get heavy from her serious advice, at least it could start out fun. Especially here, where everyone was so good-looking.

Oh hello...who’s that?
A man in a Ralph Lauren golf shirt and crisp-looking khakis immediately caught my eye. As he paid the bill and rose from his chair, I let out a tiny gasp.

I can totally see his package!

Yes, those pants had definitely been to the tailor (“Just the crotchal region please. Take them in a few inches all around”). Or maybe they hadn’t seen a tailor at all. Maybe he was simply a walking bag of...

Hey, where’d he go?

Mr. Package disappeared as a pink-tank-topped Laura and her curls swept into view.

“Hey!” I said, feeling rather flush but managing a smile. “Nice tan by the way. So how’s your precious Mark?”

Laura didn’t flash her big smile. She simply stared.

“Uhh...are you okay dude?” I said.

“The Mark thing is done.” The rage in her voice was about to bubble over.

I sat there in silence for a moment, my eyes saying
“What the hell?”
and my mind thinking
“Dammit, this means I won’t get to focus on ME!”
This was tragic, but I wasn’t a total asshole. So it was time to step it up and be a friend.

“How do you go from absolute bliss to this?” I asked. “Please explain.”

“Well here’s the short version: we were talking online last night with a webcam. I thought he was being sweet. Until…”