Counting Back from Nine Read online

dress was yellow (Grandma says orange)

  with a white sash. Everyone agrees I was

  adorable and the story presses forward.

  The scene is set with lights and tulle

  at nuptials from some yesteryear.

  A handsome chap bows deep and asks

  if he can have this dance with

  His Best Girl.

  I’m told I giggled,

  suddenly shy, as I was

  led to the dance floor and

  twirled about in

  my father’s arms.

  Slowly, slowly,

  an image forms and becomes

  the ghost of a memory.

  I will invite it to

  grow and bloom until it is

  fully formed,

  so that someday,

  the day it is needed,

  I can take it out.

  The Truth about Veggies

  Jackson’s friend is coming for dinner and

  Jackson doesn’t want Brad to know that

  Jackson is back to wolfing down meat, so —

  Jackson asks Mom to serve veggies and say nothing.

  It sounds harmless to me, but Mom

  gives him this big lecture about

  being open and honest and not

  trying to hide things.

  As if we haven’t spent the last eight months

  in the shadow of my father’s lies,

  like ghosts, pretending to be real people.

  Losing Face(book)

  Facebook or not, I doubt I would ever have seen

  that picture if it wasn’t for Nina. I know she was

  behind the tagging, making sure it got to me.

  Making sure I

  had that image burned into my brain.

  A picture of my boyfriend

  Scott

  with his arm slung around a girl-who-isn’t-me.

  Someone named Samantha.

  I should have called him the second

  my insides unfroze but

  I did not. Instead, I

  sent him a copy of the picture

  with no message, which I

  expect he got loud and clear.

  When he calls to tell me they were

  joking around, it was nothing, I

  reach out to wrap myself in

  his denials because

  it is only fair to give him the benefit of the

  doubt. But I am on high alert now. No one

  is going to make a fool of me.

  That’s for sure.

  Like Mother, Like Daughter

  My thoughts have turned to my

  mother and I cannot help but

  wonder. Were there signs?

  Did she suspect? Maybe there were

  clues and hints and she

  refused to see them.

  I wish she did not feel that

  she has to close me out. I

  am almost a woman. And

  I am part of this whether she

  sees that or not.

  A Visit to Aunt Rita

  Time alone with Aunt Rita makes me uneasy.

  She plays the confidante like a pro, drawing

  words out of me like a hypnotist.

  I learned this lesson for the first time when I was ten and

  had my first crush. Making cookies in her kitchen,

  I told her every silly thing while she

  smiled and nodded,

  understood and allowed.

  In those moments I felt that I loved her

  more than anyone else in the world.

  And then she betrayed me, exposing my secret with

  words and winks, playing the innocent while

  I burned with shame and fury.

  I have no more secrets for her and it

  satisfies me to know this will always

  be true. Today, I go seeking, and she

  does not know that she has taught me

  well or that this time her secret

  will be spilled into my hands.

  It is easy, so easy, when someone wants,

  longs to tell. And now I have the name.

  Doris Menrick.

  The passenger in my father’s car.

  The Other Woman.

  A Random Thought on Solitude

  When I was little I thought hermits

  (much like goblins and faeries) only lived

  in story books. Then I heard about

  Gold MacEvoy, a real live hermit who went

  deep into the woods on the north side of town

  after a broken romance, and has been there

  ever since. Rumour says he started out

  panning for gold (which explains the nickname)

  but liked the solitude enough to stay.

  It is easy to think that anyone who went off

  to live away from the rest of the world must be

  more than a little odd. But there are days lately

  when I am not so sure.

  Socorro

  I joke that if only I had known

  I could have had my sentence reduced

  to half time, I would have made myself

  talk about The Issues

  from day one.

  There is a quick smile and then, the usual

  serious face. “That would have slowed

  your progress more than taking

  your time did,” he says.

  But he is pleased with me. Because I am

  facing what needs to be faced.

  I am pleased as well,

  and not just

  because I now only

  have to see him

  every second week.

  My Father’s Birthday

  Memere and Pepere are here for the first time since the

  funeral. Summer came and went with phone

  calls and excuses, instead of their usual visit.

  But now they are here, to honour

  my father’s birthday, even though Mom

  pointed out the drawbacks of a late fall visit.

  Memere tells us she has been asking God to help

  her understand why, but so far God has not

  revealed the answer. Pepere gets choked up telling

  a story about my dad when he was a little boy.

  Which makes the rest of us cry, too.

  Mom has turned stiff and ill-at-ease

  as if she is spending the day

  in the company of strangers.

  I see her relief when Memere and Pepere

  go out after lunch, but when

  they return with a birthday cake

  Mom grasps a chair and sinks into it.

  Memere, blissfully oblivious,

  opens a package

  of candles.

  My eyes are drawn back to it

  again and

  again

  throughout the meal. Perhaps my brain

  is convinced that one of these glances will

  find it is no longer there, was never there,

  that fluffy white frosting and cheery blue trim.

  I chew and swallow, chew and

  swallow, chew and swallow.

  Mom flees to the kitchen with the dinner plates,

  when Memere brings the cake

  to the table. The cellophane lid crackles as

  Jackson stares and Mom becomes a

  mannequin beside the sink.

  Memere lights the candles, telling us, “Now

  we will sing, so that Marcel will know

  he is not forgotten.”

  Her lip trembles as she speaks.

  When all of the candles have been

  crowned with flames, Memere clasps

  her hands before her chest as though she is

  praying. She lifts her chin and begins to

  sing in a high, quivering voice.

  Happy Birthday first, then Bonne Fête:

  a celebration of a birthday that

  will never be. When the bizarre performan
ce

  is finally over, Memere

  cuts the cake.

  We eat in silence.

  Farewell

  We have gathered in the doorway.

  Goodbye! Goodbye! Smiles and waves

  follow Memere and Pepere as they

  back out of the driveway and begin

  their homeward journey. No one speaks

  as the little blue car disappears

  around a corner. This is not

  an event for words.

  The cake, or what remains

  of it, disappears shortly

  after they have departed.

  The cake, or what

  remains

  of it, disappears shortly

  after they have

  departed.

  Christine, Queen of Calm

  I like how Christine spreads

  her quiet words and ways

  over anger and upset.

  She has that rare ability to

  smooth and soften

  just by being.

  She is the last person I expect to

  tell me to stop putting

  things off.

  She is also the first one

  who does.

  A Call to Doris Menrick

  She is right, Christine. My new friend.

  There is not always

  a right moment. Sometimes,

  waiting for it to

  arrive is just a way of hiding. So, this moment,

  right or wrong, will be the one.

  I make the call while carefully planned words desert me.

  “I want to know the truth,” I tell her.

  “It wasn’t the way you think,” she says.

  She begins to cry. Sobs wrench themselves from her.

  I hope she drowns in her own tears.

  She says, “Your father was a good man.”

  “I know what my father was,” I say.

  “I do not need

  you, of all people,

  to tell me that.”

  I have found the one truth I need.

  Halls

  Most of the time, I never notice the

  sounds in the school hallways.

  But there are days when

  noise bounces and crashes

  off the walls like thunder. It clings to

  my brain. It echoes on and on.

  I imagine being able to silence it:

  the gossip and secrets and lies

  all muted.

  Confronting Scott

  The Facebook picture is a festering sore that will

  never heal. I cannot stop myself from

  clawing at it.

  It does not help that I feel an

  absence in him today, even though

  we are on his couch, making out. A little.

  When I ask, “Who are you thinking about?”

  it hangs in the space between us while he

  puts on a parade of emotions.

  He offers me insulted, amused, indignant —

  and I know that they are nothing more than

  faces he is trying out.

  Anger is his last resort, as though he can

  bully me into

  believing him.

  “You sound like Nina,” he says, and I

  can no longer turn away

  from the truth.

  I should sound like Nina.

  I have taken her place.

  It is time to stop

  pretending, to stop

  deceiving myself.

  I remind myself that it was

  innocent, that nothing really

  happened, but I was there. I know

  the way he stared into my eyes while she was

  at his side. There were signals and messages as clear

  as words, and they were sent

  from two sides of the table.

  Confronting Me

  I tell myself that I must find the truth, but I do

  not think I will get it and I am unsure whether

  an admission or a denial will hurt me more.

  The thought comes

  that I should break up with Scott.

  I push it away.

  I have sacrificed for this guy,

  given up friends, faced social scorn.

  He has to be worth the choices I made.

  I cannot let myself think anything else is true.

  At home later, I crawl into bed, completely exhausted.

  The night is dark outside my window—dark and

  lovely with white, glittering stars.

  Lucky stars, far, far away.

  Socorro

  It is near the end of today’s session when Socorro

  tells me he doesn’t think I need to see him anymore.

  When I realize he means it (as if he might have

  become a big jokester overnight) I cannot find

  anything to say. He waits, as he always does, and I

  summon a lame joke about how I will miss

  the comfortable chair. There is a

  faint smile before he tells me I have

  done really well and that I can

  make an appointment any time

  I think I need one.

  All these months I’ve been complaining about

  these appointments, and now it

  hits me that I really haven’t minded. It’s been

  good to have a safe place to talk.

  I leave with an odd feeling of sadness and

  something unidentified

  but good.

  Chick Flick

  Drowsiness is slipping its arms around me, which I hope

  will go unnoticed. Christine and I are at Dee’s place watching

  “The Notebook” but my eyes have grown so very, very heavy.

  If I could close them, even for a moment or two

  without anyone noticing

  and lobbing popcorn at me—

  Dee’s arm thumps into my side but she is not trying

  to wake me. “I love Ferris Wheels,” she proclaims,

  breathless as the big ride turns on the screen.

  And a memory nudges me as surely as her

  elbow has just done.

  2

  I am at my father side, waiting proudly in

  line for my very first ride on the Ferris Wheel.

  I glance at Jackson’s stroller where he sits

  blue and sticky with cotton candy and

  my happiness lets me pity him.

  Poor little guy, missing out.

  A worker clicks a metal bar in place, tugs it for

  good measure, and we begin to rise. But something is

  wrong. It is not magical, wonderful, thrilling,

  the way I have imagined.

  It is horrifying and frightening and

  I am sure I will vomit all over myself because I am

  too afraid to lean forward.

  The horror holds me firmly until an arm

  folds me against my father’s chest and his

  voice reaches through my terror.

  “You’re okay. I’ve got you. Just close

  your eyes and breathe slow and deep. In and out and

  in and out and in and out. You’re doing great.”

  I remember the circus smells that day, drifting

  blending, beckoning. Hot dogs and fried onions.

  Popcorn and ice cream and candy. Even the grease and

  metal of the rides. But best of all was the

  scent of a freshly ironed shirt.

  Wounding Mom, Wounding Me

  They come out of nowhere. No, that is

  not true. They come out of anger,

  out of pain, out of some black and

  evil place where Self is all. Words

  I can never take back, sent out to attack

  in a fight I cannot even remember.

  “No wonder Dad had a girlfriend.”

  Strange

  how they turn back to stab
at me.

  Before she begins to speak, I am already

  condemned.

  “Is that what you really think, Laren? Is it?

  Because the truth is, you don’t know

  anything about it. Nothing.

  Whatever your father did

  or didn’t do, was his choice.

  I will not be accused or

  blamed or held responsible

  for his actions.”

  I think she is finished but before I can

  slink away, she adds, “And just so you

  know, I do not intend to discuss this with

  you or anyone else.

  Not now and not ever.”

  Sooner than Never

  Even though she said, “Not ever,” she comes

  to me only hours later.

  She comes with an announcement.

  There is one thing she wants to say.

  One thing she wants me to know.

  I wait in silence while she struggles for

  composure. When she speaks, her

  words sit still in the air.

  “This does not have to affect you, Laren.

  If he was running around, it was on me.”

  It amazes me how little she

  understands. Does she really think I can

  go along when everything I’ve known and

  believed and trusted

  about my father

  has crumbled into dust?

  Letter to Dad.docx (continued)

  Sometimes I feel so bad for Mom. She’s doing her best, even with all the things she never had to handle before, but it’s not easy for her. Like, last week—she got ripped off by some guy who was supposed to clean out the gutters. He asked for half the money up front, supposedly for materials, and then he never showed up. Jackson tried to persuade her to let him do it, if you can imagine.