Betsy Wickwire's Dirty Secret (8 page)

A
s usual, Dolores tried to talk me into going out for a smoothie after work that day and, as usual, I wiggled out of it. It was getting harder and harder to come up with excuses, but I couldn't tell her the truth. She thought Nick was a dickhead.

Every day after work now, I went to Larry O'Connell Field. I didn't mean to at first. I just sort of ended up there. Now it was a habit.

There was a park bench there, tucked behind a big rhododendron bush. I could stretch out on it as if I was sunbathing. I could occasionally turn my head to the left as if I was just trying to find a more comfortable position and look beneath the chipped wooden slats on the back of the bench. Sometimes, I could see Nick on the other side of the field.

I had to think of it that way.
Sometimes, I could see …
Never
sometimes I watched …
There was a big difference. The word
watched
made me want to cry.

He wasn't always there. I didn't know his exact schedule but, based on what I'd seen, I was guessing he was on six-to-one now, every day except Thursday. That meant he could get home, change and run to the park by two-thirty.

I had a pretty good idea what he was doing with the rest of his time too. He'd be playing summer league rugby, golfing with his dad after work on Friday, and getting together for Wednesday night poker with the boys. I knew the routes he took to get wherever he was going. I knew where he liked to eat afterwards. I even knew how long he'd hang out before he'd slap whoever he was standing next to on the back and say he was on his way.

I could have found another place to see him but it wouldn't have been safe. Carly, his friends, other people would have been there. Luckily, Nick liked to work out alone. He didn't like distractions.

I wouldn't distract him. He'd never even know I was there. I made sure of it.

I closed my eyes and actually sunbathed for a while. Halifax had been unusually warm all summer. I thought of it as a sign that the world was coming to an end. The larger world, that is. Not just the little Citadel High one I used to live in. That was long gone. It was like the Lost
Civilization of Atlantis or something. I was starting to think it had never even existed.

I heard a loud grunt and my heart started up like a propeller. Nick always did this
Braveheart
war-cry thing right before he began his big sprint to the finish. Only people who know they're making good time would do something like that.

I turned and looked through the back of the bench. It was like seeing him in a movie. A tiny perfect Nick, framed by the slats. Everything else was blocked out.

He slapped the lamppost, checked his time, then hunched over to catch his breath.

I noticed his back was almost the same perfect brown as Amy's headboard. He always ran shirtless. He used to say he got too hot otherwise, but I didn't believe that. I never had. Nick looked good without his shirt on and he knew it.

I couldn't think about that. I could look at him but I couldn't think too much about him. It was a balancing act. Get it just right and I felt great. Get it even a little wrong and I wanted to die. I figured that was how drug addicts overdosed. They got greedy.

Nick was doing push-ups now. He hated push-ups, but they worked. He had amazing biceps. I counted along with him. He was up to a hundred now. When I'd started watching, he was only doing eighty.

Started watching
.

My elbows slammed into my sides. My face jerked to the front. I'd said it—only to myself, but that didn't matter. The truth was out.

Who was I kidding? I didn't just happen to see Nick. I was watching him.

I was stalking him.

I was a stalker. A sicko. That thought closed over me like a coffin.

I could hear Nick start his crunches and my teeth chattered.

Mom's right. I need help. I need a doctor. I saw the pills in Amy's drawer.
Amy takes pills
, I thought.
Prozac
.

It's weird but I didn't need to think about it any more than that. I started breathing again. Everyone has their little thing. I was okay.

Nick grunted out, “One hundred!” then fell back on the ground. No wonder he had perfect abs.

Dickheads don't have perfect abs.

I
didn't expect things to happen this way. It's not like I planned it or anything.

It's Saturday, ten in the morning, and here's Nick, pulling up in front of our house in his dad's 1968 MG convertible. Normally, that in itself would make it a special occasion. Phil's pretty generous about most things but The Midget's his baby. Nick's usually stuck driving the Land Rover.

I rap on my bedroom window and he tips back his hat to look up at me. He's got one hand slung over the wheel, the other stretched out across the passenger seat, and the type of almost-smile on his face that makes my abdominals clench. He's wearing my favourite T-shirt. It's this old grey thing that's all faded and stretched out at the neck but it's soft as a baby's sleeper. “To see it is to want to fondle it”—that's what I say every time he wears it and that's why I know he's wearing it on purpose now. I grab
my stuff and run down the stairs and out of the house before Mom can lure/shame Nick inside for a coffee or — worse—”a chat.”

I just bought myself a new bikini. Blue-green, floral print, with a halter top and a bottom I don't have to keep tucking my ass cheeks back into every two minutes. I love it. I'm wearing it under a white button-up shirt (also new) and dark jeans. I don't know if we'll have time for a swim and it's probably too cold today anyway, but I don't care. I really just want to wear the bathing suit. I know Nick will like it.

I throw my bag on the floor of the car and kiss him. Nick hasn't shaved and his whiskers make my lips twitch. He laughs and says, “You're doing that rabbit face,” then takes off with a jerk. (He's not used to the clutch but no way I'm going to tease him about that now and ruin things.) Simon and Isaac—the little kids down the street—are drawing on the sidewalk. They drop their chalk and chase after us screaming, “Give us a ride! Give us a ride!” Usually I'd get Nick to, but not today. I smile and wave them back home. They slow to a stop and stand on the sidewalk with their hands on their hips and their lips turned down like pouty fish.

We're not exactly sure where we're going. It's somewhere off the 101, that's all we know, but we're not worried. There's bound to be a sign somewhere. Nick buzzes
along the highway, just slightly above the speed limit. He knows cops won't bother stopping you if you're only a few klicks over.

His phone hums. He tosses it to me and I hold back my hair to look at the text. “Guess what?” I say.

Nick doesn't miss a beat. “They're not coming.” We look at each other and do a slow head-shake. Typical. Bobo and Fiona are always fighting.

“Still want to go?” Nick asks.

I see my reflection in his sunglasses and the big billowy white clouds morphing behind me too and of course I still want to go. I say, “We've come a long way to just turn around now. I mean, don't you think?”

He looks at the fuel gauge. “Yeah. Probably right.”

I like Fiona and Bobo and everything, but when I realize they aren't coming it's as if I float up to a whole new level of happiness. Nick and me, alone. It's been so long since we've spent a day just the two of us and now here we are and the sun's shining and Nick's got his dad's car and that grey T-shirt and I'm wearing my new bathing suit and we've got hours and hours before we have anywhere else to be.

The sign we've been looking for appears on the side of the road. Grand Opening: Mad Man Milligan's Crazee Fun World. Five minutes later we've left the car in the gravel parking lot and are holding hands at the end of
the ticket lineup. It all feels so familiar—but strange too, like something we used to do ages ago when we were first dating.

Nick smells of shampoo and deodorant and laughs when I dare him to go on the Zipper with me. He keeps laughing while this guy with a missing tooth and arms like licorice Twizzlers takes our tickets and straps us in — but he stops when the Zipper lurches to a start. Not many people know this but Nick's afraid of heights. I hold his hand as if I am too and we both scream and scream and scream until we're back on the ground. My head is ringing and Nick's T-shirt is damp and his face is pale, so we find a place to lie down on the grass far away from the newly revolting aroma of corn dogs. His arm fits under the curve of my neck and I can feel his heart still trying to get a hold of itself. I look up at that gorgeous sky again and think how everything seems different from this angle. I also think:
This is love
. It's never been that clear to me before—

“Pancakes!”

The blinds clanged open and light burned through my eyelids like acid. I whimpered.

“Beautiful day!” Mom put the tray on the bedside table and flipped my duvet back below my knees. I burrowed deeper into my pillow and thought about killing her. It was Sunday. I didn't have to work. I was quietly
enjoying one of my few remaining happy memories. Why did she have to wake me up and ruin that too?

“Lazybones!” She mussed my hair. “Ten o'clock! C'mon! Chop-chop!”

No point prolonging the agony. I was defenceless against the barrage of exclamation marks. I rolled over before she had a chance to launch into “Pitter patter, let's get at her!” and dragged myself up into a sitting position. She clamped the tray over my legs like she was locking a toddler into a car seat. I mentally wailed and kicked my tiny feet but stayed poker-faced.

She sat on the edge of the bed and smiled at me with her head all tilted in motherly love. At least that was the impression she wanted to give. I knew she was actually checking out my various shortcomings: eyebrows, split ends, dark circles, pale skin, dry patches, greasy patches, to name a few. I was her latest project. I had become the wall that needed to be painted, the garden that needed to be weeded, the fundraising dinner that needed to be planned and executed. This was the planning stage. Execution was next.

I started to eat. Maybe if she saw me consume enough calories she'd go away and let me get back to Nick. She watched me take another bite with an interest that was intense even by her David Blaine–like standards.

“More maple syrup?” she said, dousing my plate.

It occurred to me that this might be an anorexia intervention. Was I really that skinny?

“Betsy?” She said it as if she'd only just realized it was me sitting a foot away from her.

I swallowed, more as a precaution than anything. I didn't want to choke when I heard what she had to say next.

“I volunteered your services to run some errands for Granny.” She smiled like
won't that be fun?
—then wrinkled her forehead. “Unless, of course, you have something else planned for the day …”

There wasn't much I could say to that.
Yeah. I planned to stay in bed all afternoon
probably wouldn't cut it, even though it was the truth. Nor would the obvious fact that Granny was perfectly capable of driving there herself. (Dad's favourite joke is that there are high-priced call girls who go out less than Gran.) I shook my head and took another bite, because I knew Mom would never expect me to talk with my mouth full.

“Wonderful!” She slid the list onto my tray. “Well, finish up here, then head on down to the Drugmart. I got the doctor to call in the prescription. Granny's got a luncheon with her bridge ladies at noon so you'll need to get over before then. You might like to do a little something with your hair first, of course …”

*

The great thing about the Drugmart at ten-thirty on a Sunday morning is that you can pretty much count on it being devoid of anyone under thirty. I wasn't keen about being thrown into the world again but at least I felt reasonably safe here. I got out the list and started getting Granny's supplies.

It was like some sick scavenger hunt. I picked up her prescription first, not realizing the pharmacist was going to insist on explaining in great detail what the pills would do to the colour and texture of Granny's
stools
. I thanked him—mostly for stopping—then headed off in search of the other items on the list.

The Reversa “Mature Skin” Age-Confounding Anti-Wrinkle Cream and the Dragon Lady Red Kissable All-Day Lipstick were easy but I couldn't find the corn plasters. I'd never heard of corn plasters before so naturally assumed they were a snack food of some type. I looked for ages but the closest thing they had was Spicy Mexican corn chips. I was embarrassed when the salesperson led me to the Foot Care section on the other side of the store.

The corn plasters package featured a picture of a foot with a throbbing red target on the baby toe and the promise to remove “Corns, warts and fungal matter quickly
and painlessly!” I gagged and threw it in the basket.

There was only one more thing on the list. Adult diapers. I had to read Mom's note three times to be sure I was seeing right.

Granny wears diapers? Granny with her perfect nails and stiletto heels and Tuesday night salsa classes? I felt angry and embarrassed just thinking about it, as if I'd overheard someone spreading a nasty rumour about her.

I found the aisle and the kind of diapers she apparently liked—ultra-thin pull-ups, unscented—and was about to grab a package of the beige briefs and get out of there when something caught my eye. They also came in black bikini-style panties. I sort of laughed but then I remembered Granny in that tight lacy dress at the Latin Dance competition and thought “Why the hell not?” I took the black bikinis.

That made me almost happy. I thought of my own blue-green bikini and that perfect day at Crazee Fun World. I picked up the basket and headed for the checkout. Nick and I were back lying on the grass. I had my hand on his chest and he was begging me not to mention cotton candy or Cracker Jacks or food of any kind until his stomach stopped heaving and he felt halfway human again and I was laughing because he looked so miserable and that's when I heard someone say, “You gotta be kidding, man. Twelve dollars for pipsqueak little bottle?”

I didn't need to look around to see who it was. The accent was unmistakable. I started shaking so hard the pills rattled in my basket. What was Bobo doing in the Drugmart at this hour of the day?

The pharmacist led him toward the generic painkillers and I darted down another aisle out of sight. Panicky thoughts flew around inside my head like birds trapped in a house.
He's going to see me. Run. Just say hi to him. It's no big deal. Run. Drop Granny's stuff. Run. Hide behind the Pepto-Bismol display. Run
.

Run. Run. Run
.

I told myself to calm down. There was no way I could say hi to Bobo—but I couldn't just run either. Granny might really need that prescription. Granny might really need those diapers. The thought of her having an accident when her bridge ladies were over horrified me.

I could hear Bobo still talking to the pharmacist behind me. I could see the checkout twenty steps in front of me. It wasn't that far and I could keep my back to the pharmacy counter while the cashier rang me in. Any luck and I'd be out the door before Bobo had even decided between gel tabs and capsules. I was going to be okay.

I began to walk the way teachers do when they're in a big hurry but don't want some smartass kid reminding them there's no running in the halls. I was so totally focused on getting to the checkout that it never dawned on me there could
be anybody else in the store. I barrelled out the end of the aisle and banged straight into someone coming around the corner.

I threw my arms out and the diapers went flying and my basket emptied and a bunch of boxes exploded off a display. Everything clattered to the floor. The noise was deafening — but not so loud that I couldn't hear the person say, “Um.

Betsy?”

I looked up —like, way up—and there was that Murdoch guy standing there kind of flustered and awkward. “Sorry,” he said.

I couldn't answer. All I could think of was Bobo, looking up, seeing us, coming straight for me, and actually—this was the worst—engaging me in conversation. I grabbed the diapers and started scrabbling around for my stuff in the pile of things that had fallen off the shelf.

“Let me help,” Murdoch said.

I went, “No, no,” but he was already crouching down too and handing me random stuff off the floor.

None of it was mine but I took it anyway and just kept rummaging around for my own things. I found the wrinkle cream and the stool pills and was just about prepared to abandon the corn plasters when I spotted them among the stuff at Murdoch's feet.

“Can you hand me that package, please?” I said, and stood up. I was delusional enough to think I might still have time to escape.

“Yo!” Bobo said, and started coming down the aisle toward me.

Murdoch said, “Here,” and passed me a package.

My fingers wouldn't close around it. He kept holding it out for me and I kept looking him right in the face and seeing nothing. It was like I was a tuning fork or something. I was all about sound. It was my only sense still functioning.

“Bets!” Bobo bellowed.

Murdoch said, “You okay?”

I made my hand clasp the package. I thanked him. Then I turned around to face Bobo. Just get it over with.

“What's up, Hot Stuff?” He hugged me and took a step back to give me the once-over. He stunk of beer and yesterday's extra-sauce donairs. He winked at me, then reached over and shook Murdoch's hand. “Lucky man, my friend!”

The penny dropped in slow-mo. I looked at Murdoch. I looked at the dirty grin on Bobo's face. I looked at the box of neon, ribbed condoms in my hand and the package of corn plasters still lying by Murdoch's feet and said, “Uh. No. It's not …”

Bobo waved his bear paw at me. He kissed me on the cheek and whispered, “Don't worry, Bets. Your secret safe with me. You had enough. You deserve good man now.”

“No,” I said.

“Yes!” Bobo patted me on my shoulder, then looked at Murdoch. “Oooh. And black bikinis too. Ha-cha!”