Few Kinds of Wrong (12 page)

I dig my fingernails into my palm to focus my energy on the pain there instead of the threat of tears in his eyes.

“So, you might think we're not back together but I don't. I'll wait for you. For Jennifer. The one I married. I'll wait forever for her. But I won't wait long for this girl who fucks a guy on the floor just to get a little relief from life.”

My hand nearly makes contact with his face when he catches my arm. “Don't bother to pretend you're insulted. You know the truth better than me. That's why you're either working or drunk all the time. It's not that you can't face your father being gone. It's that you can't face yourself.”

He turns and I scream at him as he walks away.

I don't move for a long time. I just stare at the doorway Jamie left through.

“Jennifer?” I hear Michelle say after a few minutes. “Everything okay?”

I wipe my eyes before I turn around and answer her. “Can I get a ride home?”

She jiggles the keys in an affirmative. “You okay?”

“Perfect.”

“Good.”

She smiles and I can't help thinking how happy I am that it was Michelle and not BJ who found us.

The next morning starts with a pain in my neck. I'm face down on what feels like a small hill. I open my eyes and see that it's the highest and hardest pillow I've ever seen. I lift my head, wiggle my neck around, turn over to see where I am, and scream.

Clowns surround me. They line shelves on the wall, are piled into bookcases, and hang from the ceiling on strings. I know where I am now.

Michelle runs into the room, and asks if I'm okay. Her hair is wild, her makeup from last night faded but not removed. She's wearing a short nightshirt that reveals more than I want to see despite how she keeps pulling it down.

“I'm in clown hell. No, I'm not okay.” I rub my neck. “What kind of weird pillow is that? I can hardly move my neck.”

“Oh, that's a massaging pillow and if you plug it in it also puts out different smells like roses or lavender. Want to try it?” She walks toward the pillow and bends to pick up the AC adapter, flashing me way too much information about her personal area.

“No, no, no. I don't want any rose or lavender smell.” I rub my neck again. “How are you even my friend?”

“You're welcome.”

“For what?”

“Keeping you safe. You passed out in my car. I was afraid to leave you alone at your house so I brought you here.”

Her huge, silly grin reminds me of what she saw last night. The time between lying with Jamie in the office and getting to Michelle's comes back to me little by little. The whole night comes back to me and I curse my memory for working so well.

“Yeah, thank you. I appreciate it.” I remember Jamie's shot last night, about how I treat everyone. “I really do.”

“Oh, you're welcome.” Michelle sighs in the doorway and says, “Jamie loves you so much.”

I want to throw up. “I have to get to work,” I say, trying not to move my neck too much as the rest of me stands up.

I follow Michelle out to the living room and look at my watch: 7:45. Jamie's probably not at work yet, so little chance he's fired Bryce. I called Jamie just before I left the garage last night and left a message on his voicemail: “I'll be in at one, and I don't want Bryce there when I get in. Fire him.” And then I hung up.

“So, you and Jamie, hey?” Michelle's smile keeps getting wider and I know for sure where I don't want to be.

I pick up the phone, dial, and give the cab company Michelle's address.

“I'll get a cab to the house and get cleaned up,” I say, pulling my sneakers on and then getting my coat on. “Thanks for putting me up.”

“Just wait a few minutes for me to shower and get ready and I'll drive you.”

“No, I really have to go. Thanks a million. I'll see you at brunch.”

I shut the door and realize it's raining. I'm standing outside for ten minutes and am drenched by the time the taxi gets there.

I'm soaking wet and sitting in a cab as the taxi drives along Water Street when I see the intersection for Patrick Street.

“Stop.”

The taxi driver slams on his brakes, causing the driver behind us to veer his car around us and honk his horn.

“What?” the taxi driver says.

“Can you go up Patrick Street? I want to go there.”

“I thought you wanted to go to Thorburn Road.”

“I changed my mind.”

I hadn't really. A question popped into my mind when I saw the intersection and now nothing matters but the answer.

BJ's house is a two-bedroom, fully attached house on Patrick Street. She bought it for $70,000 seven years ago, has renovated a lot — hardwood floors, claw bathtub, chrome faucets, handmade antique washstand—thousands of dollars to make the old house look old again. Her flair for style, renovations, and a real estate market full of buyers drooling for an older style home downtown means that BJ's recent appraisal by a real estate agent brought the house in at over $200,000.

No doubt, the fact that the house is owned by BJ Brown, weatherwoman on the nightly news, helps. BJ is the queen of visiting community events for live shots. Whether it's a potluck fundraiser supper, a doggie fashion show at the SPCA or a ribbon-cutting at the latest Fill-In-Your Disease/ Disorder-Here Centre, BJ is there, holding a microphone and wearing a warm, caring smile.

The taxi stops outside BJ's house. I step out of the car and make two steps to her front steps. I knock for five minutes. No answer. I know light-sleeper BJ sometimes sleeps late in a sensory deprived state, blindfold over her eyes and earplugs in her ears. I give up and walk around to the back of the house.

I throw small rocks at her window, then when they don't work, I go bigger. When the rocks get big enough that I'm afraid I might break the glass, I finally see the princess in the window, silk blindfold pushed up to her forehead. She furrows her brow.

“What's wrong?” she yells, her voice muffled through the glass. She pulls the earplugs out of her ears. I motion for her to go to the door and let me in. I'm not about to shout at her, figuring the neighbours have already called the police about a potential crazed stalker in BJ's backyard. Before I get through the door BJ is talking. “You can't be that big of a sook.”

“What?”

“Waking me up early just to get me back for waking you yesterday morning. Come off it. Even you're more mature than that, for Jesus' sake.”

Was that yesterday morning? It feels like I've lived a lifetime in the space between then and now.

“It's not that early. It's almost eight. Most normal people are up now.” BJ and I step from her foyer into her living room through an archway on the left. BJ runs upstairs and comes back down with a towel which she passes to me. I take off my coat and shake most of the water off. BJ holds it with one finger and thumb and lays it across a radiator.

“Something happened last night,” I say.

“Really? What?” BJ asks, her one eyebrow raised. “Is everything okay?”

We sit on her white leather couch and I notice the new decor. BJ changes around her living room like some people change their kitty litter. I'd been at her house three weeks before, with its blue walls, white trim, sheer curtains, and beige sofa. Now the walls are chocolate brown and the trim a baby blue, a new trend I don't understand.

“You didn't get a call from Mom last night?”

“No.” Concern enters her voice. “I was on a date. Had my phone off. I didn't get in until almost two. Is everything okay?”

“I dropped by Mom's house last night after work. Late. To surprise her.” I run my finger along the seam on the leg of my jeans. “It was me who got the surprise.”

“Really?” BJ says, but I catch something in the second before her perfect camera face takes over.

“You knew,” I say, sitting up straight. “You knew and you didn't tell me.”

“Knew what?” BJ says, innocent face painted on perfectly.

“You know.”

“No, I don't.” She shakes her head.

“Then why did you look guilty for a second?”

“I didn't.” She lets out an exasperated gasp.

We sit in silence for a minute or so until I decide to end it. “Why don't you guess what I saw?”

“Was she alone?”

“See, I knew you knew,” I say, hopping to my feet. I start pacing. “I can't believe you didn't tell me.”

“I don't know anything.” She raises her voice. “I swear to God I don't.”

“Yes, you do. I saw it in your face.”

“What happened? Did you catch them in bed or something?”

I nod. “But not like you think. Mom was there asleep in bed with him. They seemed so at home in that bed together. I think it would have been easier to see them … well, I can't even think of that.”

“I'm sorry.”

“You didn't ask who it was,” I say, my voice lowering to almost a whisper.

“I dropped by on her one night too,” she says, picking at the red nail polish on her left index finger, “and he was there then. He was just sitting on the sofa. There wasn't anything for sure there. Just …”

“Just what?”

“Just something in the way she acted, the way she kept glancing at him. The way she shuffled her feet and didn't know what to do with her hands. Like she'd been caught.”

“And you didn't tell me?” I look away. “I can't trust anyone.”

“What was I supposed to say? Oh, guess what? I went by your mother's house and Bryce was there watching TV and your mom acted funny.”

“Sure. Like you didn't ask her about it after. Like she didn't tell you what was going on.”

“Jennifer, I'm not that kind of a friend with her. We went to cooking class a few times and now we go out for coffee and swap recipes. I don't tell her about my relationships and she sure as hell doesn't tell me about hers. The only time we ever talked about anything serious was the other night when she called me all upset and wanted me to talk to you about the fight you'd had.”

I sit down and rub my forehead. “I wanted to be sick. I stood there just looking at them. It was like I couldn't not look but I didn't want to see it.”

BJ reaches out and touches my hand. I pull away.

“I'm okay,” I say, standing up to lean against the old cabinet hi-fi BJ had converted into the world's largest MP3 player.

“Then you should be happy for them. They both lost someone they loved and now they've found a new relationship with each other.” BJ tilts her head at me. I'd find the look challenging from anyone else.

BJ continues to stare at me. “And what else? There's something else.”

I
glance at BJ then look away.

“My God, you got laid, didn't you?”

“How'd you get that?”

“You did.” BJ smiles the way she always does. One grin can change her so she goes from gorgeous to breathtaking. Her smile, even when it's sarcastic and smarmy, softens everything around her. It has made me laugh while sad tears rolled down my face; it has made me remember something I didn't know I'd forgotten; and I looked for it in the days after Dad died. It didn't come for a long time, and when it did I wanted for it to make me better, to make things right again. But not even her smile filled the space left behind.

“BJ.”

“I know these things. From the first time you did it with Craig Ferguson in Bessie's backseat, I can pick up on it. You always look a little guilty after you've done the deed. Well, a lot guilty after that time in Bessie.” She giggles. “Man, we scrubbed that back seat so much I thought your dad would figure it out just by how clean it was. Never did that again, did you?”

I look at her and raise my eyebrows.

“Really?” she says.

“Jamie really liked that car.”

“Yeah, me too. Anyway, I guess last night is the reason for … for this.” Her index finger points its way up and down my body.

“What this?”

“This, this relaxed Jennifer thing. This, I don't know. It's like you let something go.”

I roll my eyes. “I did the nasty with Jamie, BJ. I didn't have some kind of emotional awakening or anything.”

BJ's eyes open almost as wide as her now gaping mouth. “Jamie? Well, you finally came to your senses, hey?” She smiles again. “I'm glad. It's about time.”

“Came to my senses? How can you say that after what he did to me?”

“Come off it, Jennifer. We both know he bent over backwards for you and you locked him out.”

“You always take his side. I caught him. With her.”

“Doing something he had every right to do. You can't take away someone's food and then get mad when he lets someone else feed him.”

“What? What kind of weird comparison is that?”

“It's called a metaphor.”

“I'd call it stupid. And I'm sick of you always picking up for him. I don't understand. You always said he sponged off me and that he was lazy.”

“But you were good together and you were happy with him. He can't be perfect.”

I shake my head. “I just wonder whose side you're on.”

Her tilted head makes me want to smack her.

“Yeah, just like I figured,” I say. I pick up my coat and walk out the door.

“Jennifer. Don't leave. Come on. I was just saying.”

“Yeah, I know what you're just saying.” I slam the door behind me. On BJ's front step, I stare at the pouring rain. For once, I'm grateful for it. I can let my tears go and no one needs to know.

9

B
EFORE DAD'S DEATH,
the worst day of my life was one where I placed a piece of paper down on a desk.

I laid the cheque down in Dad's office. Jamie stood behind me and closed the door. Once the door closed, there was a strange silence that blocked out all the noise in the garage so that I heard Jamie's sneaker squeak on the floor when he moved.