Come See About Me (11 page)

He smiles the
biggest grin I’ve spotted on his face yet. “Liar.”

 I watch
him go for the second time today. Weird as the conversation was, I’ve decided
running out of the house earlier was the right thing to do. I thought I was
glad that Abigail had flown back to Vancouver but, tiring as it was having to
speak to someone every day, now I wonder if I miss it a little.

Hearing Liam’s story reminds me of
what a bad friend I’ve been to Yunhee—that she could be going through something
monumental and I’d never know it. After twenty-four hours of procrastinating I
set aside my latest engraving kit creation and call her to ask if she wants to
get together sometime soon. She says between classes and the crazy hours she’s
doing at her library job this week it’s not a good time to meet up but that she
has plans with Katie (who she doesn’t get to see as much anymore because
they’re both so busy and never seem to be on campus at the same time) the
following week. “So the three of us can get together then!” she enthuses. “Do
you want to train it over here or do you want us to come to you?”

I’ve gotten used
to the suburban quiet during the past few months but Yunhee and Katie would
probably be bored here. Then again, in Toronto we’ll probably just end up at a
coffee shop, café or hanging out at Yunhee’s apartment—all of which, except the
last part, we can do right here.

“We can make up
our minds later,” I say noncommittally. Then, because I don’t want her to get
the wrong idea and think I’m going to flake out on her, I add, “Just name the
day that works best for you.”

Yunhee thinks
next Thursday and I write the date down on the back of my preprinted art board
and circle it twice. I can’t explain why after all these months it feels
important to reconnect with Yunhee, but my mind’s locked onto the idea like
it’s critical. No matter how I feel come next Thursday, I promise myself I
won’t cancel. Not unless there’s an alien invasion or I get hit by lightning.

In the meantime
I do my regular things—taking root in front of the TV (sometimes while looking
over
Johnny Yang
and sometimes not), keeping Armstrong in fresh fruit
and answering my parents’ phone calls. I also walk up to Shoppers Drug Mart to
buy toothpaste for sensitive teeth in the hope that’s the only thing wrong with
my irritable tooth. Soon it begins to hurt even when I’m not eating, which
makes it impossible to pretend a tube of toothpaste’s a decent solution, and I
make an appointment with a dentist’s office within walking distance at the
corner of Trafalgar and Randall.

I was never
afraid of the dentist, but I’ve never had to worry about how much they charge
before and when the dentist shows me the infection on my x-ray and says the
words “root canal” my heart sinks.

“How much will
that cost?” I ask him.

“We don’t do
them here,” he explains. “I’m going to give you a referral to an endodontist—we
can set that up for you if you like—and they’ll discuss all the details with
you there. However, we’ll need to see you back here afterwards for a crown.”

“But, I mean,
all this isn’t cheap, right?” I had braces for two and a half years when I was
a kid without giving the cost of straight teeth a second thought. In the July following
my final year of high school an oral surgeon removed my four impacted wisdom
teeth. And up until recently I’d visited the dentist at least once a year to
get my teeth cleaned and X-rayed and cavities filled. Over the years my parents
and their medical insurance plan must have invested a small fortune in my teeth
while I remained oblivious and carefree.

“Do you have
benefits?” the dentist asks.

“No,” I reply in
what sounds like an especially downtrodden voice. Why couldn’t this have
happened months ago while I was still covered under my parents’ plan?

The dentist’s
eyes soften. “We can work out some kind of installment plan for the cost of the
crown if it’s a problem for you, and I know this particular guy well and am
fairly sure he will too.” I nod gratefully. An installment plan will at least
give me time to work something out. “So, should we go ahead and schedule an
appointment for you?”

I tell him yes
and he writes out two prescriptions for me—one for pain and one for the
infection. He says they’ll give me a call when they have an endodontic
appointment set up for me and I pay him for the visit and walk down to a
drugstore on Lakeshore Road with my prescriptions. They’re markedly more
expensive than a tube of toothpaste. So far I’ve spent more money in one day
than I usually do in seven.

I imagine, with
horror, the amount that the root canal will set me back and know that it will
necessitate a call to my parents. There’s no question that they’ll pay for the
procedure, but it could also easily inspire them to resurrect their
bring
Leah home
campaign. Asking for money (my dad still doesn’t know about the
extra bit that my mom’s been sending along from time to time) signifies that I
can’t take care of myself, which in their minds will mean I should be living
back in my old bedroom, with them hovering over me like I never had a life with
Bastien.

I shudder at the
thought. What I need is the space and quiet to register Bastien’s absence. That
hasn’t changed. I don’t want to move on. As it is, every day takes me a little
further from the time we shared together. I need to protect and preserve what I
still have of him.

I ramble along
Lakeshore Road with my prescription in a paper bag and my head tangled with
thoughts of Bastien on the one hand, and the money I desperately need from my
parents on the other. I don’t want to ask them; I don’t want to hear what
they’ll say. I’m beginning to get a headache, either from the financial stress
or lack of caffeine, and my feet start taking me in the direction of The Cunning
Café. What does spending a couple of dollars matter when I’ll soon likely need
well over a thousand?

I curse my tooth
as I walk. The coffee will have to be warm rather than hot or my tooth will
complain yet more bitterly.

I’m almost at
the crosswalk nearest the café when I see Abigail’s neighbor Marta
straightening a display of cookies and assorted snack goodies in front of a
shop I’ve never taken any notice of. Marta spots me mere seconds after I’ve
seen her but she’s the first one to say hello.

I say hello back
as I glance at the store behind her—O’Keefe’s British and Irish Delights. I
would’ve sworn Marta was a teacher, but I guess I had her pegged wrong. “You
work here?” I ask.

“Yes indeed,”
she says cheerfully. “Took the running of it over from my mother a few years
ago. Expats like to have their goodies.”

“Doesn’t
everyone,” I say in agreement. There’s something about Marta that puts me in a
better mood, and I begin to tell her about my tooth and the impending root
canal.

“They’re not as
bad as people say they are,” Marta assures me. “I had one about five years ago
and the pain beforehand was much worse than what I felt afterwards. I can never
understand people who are reluctant to take pain killers.” She smiles. “I’m all
in favor of modern medicine. Load me up with the pain killers, I say.”

I hold up my
paper bag. “Antibiotics and pain killer. I’m on my way to take them both.” I
motion towards The Cunning Café—my planned coffee stop—across the street, and
as I turn back to Marta I spy a help wanted sign in the window of O’Keefe’s
British and Irish Delights. I squint at it briefly, my heart leaping at the
opportunity as my head warns that it’s a bad idea. Look what happened at the
museum. I don’t want to cause trouble with Abigail’s perfectly nice neighbors.

Marta follows my
gaze and alights on the sign just as I tear my eyes away. “I had a student
helping me out,” she explains. “But she moved to Hamilton with her family and
now Oakville’s too far for her to come for a part-time job. My nephew puts in
hours sometimes, though.”

“And your mom?”
I ask. “Does she still work here sometimes?”
‘Part-time help wanted,’ the
sign reads. I wonder how many hours that means. And how many could I handle?

“Oh, no. Mom
lives in Florida.” So Deirdre’s not her mother and Marta’s not a schoolteacher.
Obviously I’m no psychic. A gust of wind blows Marta’s bangs into her eyes. She
sweeps her hair back behind her ears and adds, “Anyway, if you know of anyone
looking for part-time work, do me a favor and send them my way.”

“Uhm.”
Don’t
do this, Leah. If you get fired it will reflect badly on Abigail
. “How many
hours a week is the job?”

Marta leans
thoughtfully against the doorframe like she never bothered to add them up
before. “About twelve, fifteen. Somewhere in there.” She flips her hand over
and starts counting on her fingers. “Friday night from three or four until
closing at eight, same on Saturday, and then the entire shift on Sunday, noon
to five.”

I nod. Could I
handle fifteen hours? My job at the museum was three shifts a week too but back
then I still had classes. The schedule Marta outlined would leave me four full
days—and all my mornings—free.

“Are you in the
market for a job?” Marta asks. I can hear the uncertainty in her voice. No
doubt Abigail explained my situation but Marta is too tactful to spell out her
doubts.

She should be
doubtful. I am too. But I’m already doing calculations in my head, estimating
what the root canal and crown might set me back and how long it will take me to
cover the cost working fifteen hours a week at O’Keefe’s. I can’t imagine a job
like that would pay much (maybe even less than the museum), but on the plus
side, it probably won’t be very demanding.

“I’ve been
thinking about it,” I say in a level voice. “Just, you know, something
part-time and local.” The truth, about needing money for my root canal,
wouldn’t exactly inspire confidence that I’m ready to return to work. I don’t
want Marta to think I’ll disappear as soon as my budget balances; I have no
intention of leaving town anytime soon. Actually, maybe if I have a job in
Oakville Abigail will be inclined to let me stay longer—not that she’s ever
mentioned any time frame for my stay.

“This would
definitely fit the bill,” Marta says. “Mainly it’s just tending to customers,
some light stocking of shelves.” She ushers me inside the store with her. It’s
a crowded but homey space. The shelves are filled with candies, chocolate bars
and canned goods that I don’t recognize. Something that looks like detergent
even. You know you’re homesick when you’re buying imported detergent. Further
inside, on the back wall, there are numerous DVDs and sports jerseys. I spot
copies of
Doctor Who
,
Midsomer Murders
and various BBC Jane Austen adaptations amongst the
otherwise unfamiliar offerings.

“Mondays to
Saturday I open around eleven,” Marta tells me. “Usually I stay until six-ish
but with Caroline gone I’ve been staying later. Kevin—the nephew I
mentioned—has been coming in during the evenings on Friday and Saturday to help
me out.”

“So…the shifts
would just be Friday to Sunday?” I heard her the first time but I want to make
sure. I can just about wrap my head around the idea of coming in here three
times a week. Anything more would just be setting myself up to fail.

“Were you
looking for more days?” Marta asks.

I shake my head.
“Fifteen hours sounds good. Fifteen hours sounds like what I’m looking for.”

As we’re
talking, a middle-aged couple wanders into the store and smiles at Marta.

“Hi,
Simon, Louise,” Marta greets.

“Getting
blustery out there,” Louise remarks, the lilt in her voice sounding similar to
Liam’s.

“It is,” Marta
confirms. “You know, I just set up the display outside. I wonder if I should
bring it in.”

“I’d say you’d
be smart to,” Louise declares. “Wouldn’t want it to end up halfway down the
road.” She chuckles at her own joke.

Marta starts for
the door, turning to me as she goes. “As far as I’m concerned the job is yours
if you think it will suit you. Why don’t you come by the house later tonight
and let me know.”

I thank her and
say I will. Then I hurry over to The Cunning Café, swallow my antibiotics and
painkillers with lukewarm coffee and hope I’m not making a mistake. Things have
gone as well as could be expected in Oakville so far and now I’m in danger of
screwing it up.

Things keep
changing on me. No matter how hard I try to freeze myself in place, life pushes
on.

In the evening I
place a collect call to my parents and test the waters about my new job and
upcoming root canal. Right away my mother starts lamenting the fact that I’m no
longer covered under her medical plan. “I know,” I agree, “it’s bad timing.” I
make a mental note to plan future emergency dental work more carefully.

I don’t have to
ask her for the money for the procedure—right off the bat my mother says she’ll
send off checks to the endodontist and dentist once I know exactly how much the
procedures will cost. I thank her twice and bring up my job at O’Keefe’s hot on
the heels of news of my infected tooth. “So you won’t have to send me money
anymore,” I whisper, as though my father can hear our secret from across the
country. “After the root canal stuff, I mean.”

“I’m glad you’ll
have something to occupy you,” my mother says, “but, Leah, when are you coming
home?” The wistfulness in her voice fills me with sadness for the gap between
the way things should be and the way they are.

“I’m doing okay
here, Mom, all right? I’ll be home for a visit at Christmas.” It’s the first
time I’ve specifically promised that. Every previous mention of this Christmas
has come from my parents’ lips.

“You should give
me the dates you want to fly!” my mom exclaims, jumping on the opportunity.
“We’ll get that booked for you as soon as we hear.”