Be the Girl(3)

I feel my cheeks burn with a mixture of embarrassment and shame.

“They won’t hear it from me.” There’s a pause. “How’s she doing?”

“I think she’s okay. Seems to be, anyway.” The way my mother says that, it doesn’t sound convincing. “Listen, thanks again for taking us in. I know we’re turning your life upside down—”

“No, no, I’m happy to have you. Truth is, it’ll be nice to talk to someone besides myself. And I can use the help around here. I’ve been relying on Iris too much and I’m afraid she’s getting the wrong idea. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not quite as fit as I once was.”

“Yeah, Cheez Whiz sandwiches and whiskey will do that.” Mom’s musical laughter carries up the stairs. “Good night, Uncle Merv. We’ll catch up more in the morning.”

The stairs creak and I venture farther into my bedroom so I don’t look guilty of eavesdropping. I’m at the window when Mom leans against the door frame, a wistful smile on her lips. “This used to be my room when I stayed here.” Her eyes dart from corner to corner before settling on the bed, adorned with a green leaf comforter. “I slept in that.”

“It’s small.” Almost too small to be called twin-sized.

“Let me know how the mattress is. We might have to invest in a new one. Nothing’s been updated here in decades.” She wanders over to gingerly sit on the window bench, as if testing it. “Uncle Merv built this for me when I was eight. I’d sit here and read for hours.” She smooths a hand over a bookcase. “They could use a new coat of paint.”

“Everything in here could,” I mumble.

“That’s a good idea! Let’s go to the paint store tomorrow morning and pick out a color. You know, freshen this place up a bit. What do you think?”

“Indigo blue?” I raise a questioning eyebrow.

Mom’s nose crinkles. “What about something more bright and cheery?”

I shrug. “I like dark and moody.” My gaze drifts over the slanted ceiling. “I think it’d look good. Kind of like a nighttime sky.”

Mom’s eyes trail mine, as if reconsidering her objection. “Yeah, okay. We could get those glow-in-the-dark stickers you like.”

I bite my tongue against the urge to remind her that I’m not five anymore.

Mom rises and wanders back slowly, opening the desk drawers on her way past. “This will work for your homework, right?”

“I don’t do homework at a desk.”

“What? Of course you do! You had that little purple lamp that we’d shine on the wall at night. Remember, shadow puppets?” She uses her hands to mime the shape for a dog.

“That was when I was, like, eight.” I’ve been doing my homework at the kitchen island or sitting cross-legged on my bed for years now. Mom’s never been around to notice though, too busy at the law firm or buried under a stack of legal paperwork in her home office.

“Right.” Her head bows, and the guilt radiates from her. “Things are going to change, Aria. You have a new school; you’ll have new friends. I can’t write the Ontario bar exam until March so I’ll be around all the time for the next seven months. So much, you’ll be sick of me.” She laughs. “And even when I go back to work, I’ll make sure I’m only working part-time, so I’m more”—her throat bobs with a hard swallow—“involved in your life. Things are going to change. For both of us. I promise.”

I could say things now—namely, that none of what happened was her fault, that it was all mine—my thoughts, my feelings, my choices. But, just like her, I am ready to put the past behind me.

“They kind of already have?” I hold my hands out to gesture at my new room in this sad little white hovel, a far cry from the sizable house we left outside Calgary. But here, three provinces away, I’m not that same girl. My name’s not even the same, now that I’ve legally changed it to take my mother’s maiden name. My dad didn’t bat an eye when we set the paperwork and a pen in front of him. That’s when I knew he’d already all but disowned me.

“You’re right, they have. And we have a lot to do around here to get this place back in shape.” She sighs, catching a cobweb that dangles from a corner with her finger. “I knew Uncle Merv was having a hard time adjusting to bachelor life but Aunt Connie must be rolling in her grave.” She rubs a hand over her weary eyes. “Get some sleep. We have a busy day tomorrow.” She drops her voice to a whisper. “God knows how long it will take to find the corpse of whatever died down there.”





2





It’s after ten by the time I venture downstairs, my hair damp from a shower. Mom is in the kitchen on hands and knees scrubbing furiously, dressed in her yoga outfit and yellow rubber gloves. “’Morning.”

“Oh, good morning, hon! Try Iris’s carrot cake. It’s delicious. And there’s some coffee left in the pot for you. Mugs are in the cupboard above it.” She sounds way too cheery.

I pause a moment to take in the kitchen for the first time. It’s as old and derelict as the rest of the house, with golden oak wooden cupboards huddled into a small space and mismatched white-and-ivory-colored appliances. A four-person rectangular table sits tucked in against the wall. Half of it is covered with flyers and unopened mail. Along the brown laminate countertop are miscellaneous pots and pans—contents of the cupboard she’s scrubbing, if I had to guess. The smell of bleach lingers in the air.