The Simple Wild: A Novel(5)

Simon has already put his reading glasses on to scan the severance paperwork.

Meanwhile, Mom wraps her arms around me and begins smoothing her hand over my hair, like she did when I was a small child in need of consoling. It’s almost comical, given that I’m three inches taller than her. “Don’t worry. This happens to all of us.”

“No it doesn’t! It hasn’t happened to either of you!” Simon keeps complaining that he has more patients than he has hours in the day to treat them, and Mom has owned a successful flower shop on Yonge Street for the past eleven years.

“Well, no, but . . . it happened to your grandfather, and Simon’s brother, Norman. And both sets of neighbors, don’t forget about them!” She scrambles to find examples.

“Yeah, but they were all in, like, their forties! I’m only twenty--six!”

Mom gives me an exasperated look, but then the fine lines across her forehead deepen with her frown. “Who else lost their job?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t see anyone else at security.” Is the rest of my team sitting around their desks, whispering about me at this very moment? Did they see it coming?

Her slender hands rub my shoulders affectionately. “Well, the place is obviously run by a bunch of idiots if they would let go of their best and brightest employee.” Another eye-spear cast Simon’s way, meant for Mike.

Of course she’s going to say that. She’s my mom. Still . . . it makes me feel marginally better.

I rest my head against her shoulder, finding comfort in the delicate scent of her floral perfume and the softness of her sleek, chin-length golden-brown bob, as we quietly watch Simon peruse the paperwork, awaiting his verdict.

“Four months’ pay with benefits . . . retraining with an employment agency . . . looks fairly standard,” Simon says in that charming Hugh Grant–esque British accent that still lingers, even after thirty-odd years of living in Canada. “You’re in a good situation. You don’t have rent or a mortgage to worry about. Your bills are minimal.” He slides his glasses to the top of his thinning gray-haired head and settles his shrewd blue eyes on me. “But how does this make you feel?”

Simon is big on asking me how things make me feel, especially when he knows I don’t want to talk about it. He’s a psychiatrist and can’t help but psychoanalyze everything and everyone. Mom says it’s because he’s teaching me to always be comfortable with expressing my emotions. He’s been doing it since the first day I met him, when I was eight and he asked me how the thought of my mom having a boyfriend made me feel.

“I feel like I need to be alone.”

He nods once, in understanding. “Quite right.”

I collect my severance package and head for the stairs.

“Susan? Isn’t there something else you ought to mention?” I hear him whisper.

“Not now!” she hisses in response.

When I glance back, the two of them are communicating through a series of glares, waggling eyebrows, and pointed stares. They’re notorious for doing this. It’s amusing . . . when it has nothing to do with me. “What’s going on?”

Mom offers a tight smile and says in a light voice, “It’s nothing. We can talk about it later, when things have settled down for you.”

I sigh. “Just tell me.”

Finally, Mom relents. “There was a call today.” She hesitates. “From Alaska.”

Unease settles into my spine. I only know one person in Alaska, and I haven’t talked to him in twelve years. “What does he want?”

“I don’t know. I missed getting to the phone, and he didn’t leave a message.”

“So then it’s nothing.”

Her tight brow tells me she doesn’t think it’s nothing. Even when we were on speaking terms, my dad was never the one to make the effort, to work out the time difference and pick up the phone to say hello. “Maybe you should give him a call.”

“Tomorrow.” I continue up the stairs. “I can only handle so much disappointment for one day.”

And my father has already delivered enough to last me a lifetime.





Chapter 2




“Going out?” Simon checks his watch. He can’t fathom the idea of leaving the house at eleven P.M. to see friends, but he’s fifty-six years old and doesn’t leave the house much, period, unless my mother forces him. His idea of entertainment is pouring himself a glass of sherry and catching up on the latest BBC documentary.

“I figured I may as well.”

Simon peers over his glasses at me, doing a quick, fatherly scan of my outfit before shifting his gaze back to his book. I decided on my shortest, tightest black dress and my highest heels for tonight. In any other situation, the combination would be considered escort-worthy, but on a sweltering Thursday night on Richmond Street in July, it’s practically standard uniform.

Simon rarely comments on my clothing choices, though, and I’m thankful for that. Lord knows what meaning he could find in tonight’s ensemble. An ego boost after my pride’s been trounced? An outcry for love and attention maybe? Deeply seeded daddy issues?

“With the usual suspects?”

“No. They’re all away. Just Diana tonight.” And Aaron, I’m sure. One can’t be at a club for too long without the other. My best friend will demand a girls’ night out and then act like it’s a complete coincidence that her boyfriend shows up, even though I watched her text him our exact location a half hour before.