So Much It Hurts (24 page)

I've already reached for Mick's carry-on bag. It's made of soft tan leather, and it feels expensive.

I unzip the bag. Which is when I spot the gold pocket watch with the gold chain so delicate a spider might have spun it. It's right there, in the silky side pocket. I can't help sucking in my breath. The back of the pocket watch has a curly
N
engraved on it. I'd know that watch anywhere. It was Nelson Karpman's.

Just like in my dream. Could I be dreaming again? I pinch my arm, but no, this is real.

I pull the watch out of the bag. “What are you doing with this?” My voice sounds stronger than I'm used to hearing it. I think because this isn't about me—it's about my friend. That watch belongs to Mrs. Karpman.

“What do you mean
what am I doing with this?
It's an antique pocket watch. I bought it at an antique shop on Notre-Dame Street. For Nial. Did you notice the
N
on the back?” Mick is talking more quickly than usual, but he's looking at me. Most liars can't make eye contact when they're lying. Unless, of course, they're actors—or theater directors with a background in acting. I'm sure Mick is lying. I'd recognize that pocket watch anywhere.

I'm shaking. Not because I'm afraid, the way I usually am when I start shaking; it's because I'm angry. White-hot burning angry.

“It's Mrs. Karpman's watch!” I don't care if I'm shouting. I don't care if the whole world hears. “It belonged to her husband. I know because I saw it in a photo. You stole it, didn't you? You took the key she gave me and broke into her apartment!” I'm too angry to cry.

“Of course not. Why would I rob a helpless old woman?”

At first, Mick's question throws me. Why
would
he rob a helpless old woman? Why would he rob my friend? Because, in some strange way, Mrs. Karpman has become the best friend I have. And then the answer comes to me. He'd rob her because he
could—
and because she is my closest friend right now. Mick has been trying to take everything away from me—even my friends. The worst part is
I've let him
. I've let him rob Mrs. Karpman. I've let him take everything away from me—or almost everything.

“How could you do this to her? To me?”

Mick won't answer.

I'm dangling the watch in the air in front of him. Now I hold it to my chest. “I'm bringing it back to her. Now.”

Mick blocks my way. “Iris, don't be ridiculous.” He makes it sound like this is no big deal, that he just happens to have Mrs. Karpman's husband's watch. That he didn't just lie to me about buying it at some antique store.
On
Notre-Dame Street.

“If you bring it back to her, she'll know who robbed her apartment.” Mick keeps his voice low, as if he's afraid the walls will hear. “I could go to jail. And so could you. You gave me the key, remember?”

“I never gave you the key and you know it! You took it from the drawer!”

Mick shakes his head, and for a moment, I doubt myself. “Next you'll be saying you didn't steal those clothes from Forever 21 either,” he says.

“I didn't,” I sputter. “You made me do it. You forced me to.” Even to my own ears, the words sound hollow— because I don't really believe them. I could have said no. To the stealing. To everything. Just like I could have left the first time Mick hit me. Ms. Cameron didn't stick around after Mick became violent. Or I could have left before that—when he punched a hole in the wall. But I didn't. Doesn't that make me almost as much to blame as him?

Everyone knows about women who stay in unhealthy relationships. In abusive relationships even. But they don't get good grades in school or have families who love them. I can't be one of those women.

Or can I?

I could cry. I could drop down on my knees right now and weep and weep and never stop. Because I'm trapped and lost, with no place to go. Just like in my dream.

I can't go back to Mom's. I don't belong there anymore. Not in my single bed with her patrolling outside my door, offering me green tea.

I can't stay here. Once Mick leaves, I could never afford this place on my own.

I can't go to Mrs. Karpman's. Because as angry as I am with Mick, I don't want him to go to jail.

And I don't want to go to Australia. At least, not now.

I've got no place to go.

I'm as badly off as Ophelia—and look what she did. She killed herself. I picture that now too. Where would I even go to drown myself? I'd have to jump from the Jacques-Cartier or Champlain Bridge if I wanted to drown in the St. Lawrence River. I could never do that. I suppose I could just walk into the water the way Virginia Woolf did when she killed herself. Or I could take a whole bottle of pain pills. Katie's dad takes them for his back; I've seen them in their bathroom cupboard. I could steal the bottle—the way I stole those clothes at Forever 21. The memory makes me feel even more miserable. Or I could jump in front of the metro and give Katie something to talk about.

I've made such a mess of things.

How will I ever make things better? How will I ever find a way to clean up the terrible mess I've made?

Tender yourself more dearly.

Why am I quoting Polonius? And now I remember that that's also what Ms. Cameron was trying to tell me at the cast party.

She said,
We have to tender ourselves more dearly
.

Polonius was criticizing Ophelia for having given herself away too easily to Hamlet. He was telling her she should have valued herself more. Is it possible I've made the same mistake? That I haven't valued myself enough? Given my heart away too easily the way she did with Hamlet?

And now I begin to see another layer to the words.
Tender
has another, gentler meaning that has nothing to do with value or money. Maybe I need to be more tender with myself. Gentler. Look after myself better.

“Pull yourself together, Iris.” Mick is breathing hard and moving toward me. But his eyes aren't flashing the way they do when he's about to hit me. There's a look I'm not used to seeing in his dark eyes. Fear. Mick is afraid I'll tell people what he did. What we both did. Realizing that gives me courage I didn't know I had.

“You lied to me. About Mrs. Karpman. Just like you lied to me about that poem. The one you said you wrote for me.”

Mick opens his arms, and when he speaks, his voice sounds like a lullaby. “Come here, Joey. I can explain everything.”

I could snuggle in his arms. I could let him try to explain what he is doing with Nelson Karpman's watch. I could hope for another new beginning, the way I always do with Mick.

Or I could try to leave. Try, because I'm not sure I can do it and because I know it will be hard. Despite everything that's happened, Mick still has a hold over me. But I've discovered something else: I'm going to have to tender myself more dearly. Even if Ophelia couldn't do it, I think I can.

“I'm keeping the watch,” I tell Mick. “I'll think of something to tell Mrs. Karpman.”

I half expect Mick to grab the watch from my hands. But he doesn't. Instead, he zips up his leather carry-on bag. “Fine,” he says. “Have it your way.”

CHAPTER 30

“This above all: to thine own self be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day…”
—HAMLET
, ACT 1, SCENE 3

I
gave Mick another chance. He went down on his knees and swore to me that he bought the watch at an antique store on Notre-Dame Street. He said he'd even take me there to prove it. When I said he didn't have to, he took the watch back to Mrs. Karpman himself—and explained how he got it. How whoever stole it must have sold it to the shop.

Mick left for Melbourne on Friday. We said our goodbyes in the loft. I knew I'd lose it if I went downstairs and watched him step into the taxi. When I started to cry, Mick kissed my tears away. He cried too. He told me we had to be brave, that we'd be together soon. He said he wanted me to come the minute exams are over in June. He said he'd pay for the trip. He promised he'd never hurt me again—ever.

And, for the first time, Mick apologized. “I haven't been the best man I could be,” he said, “but I'm going to do better. I'm going to work to deserve you, Joey.”

Because Mick had to pay the rent until the end of May, he said I should use the loft. Mom was against the idea until I told her I'd get more studying done. “Besides,” I added, “it might help me clear my head.”

She liked that part too.

Only I haven't been doing much studying—or clearing my head. Unless bawling counts as a way to clear your head. I didn't know a person could cry so many tears. Not even William Shakespeare—the cat or the playwright— can cheer me up.

Now Mrs. Karpman is at the door. “Even with two bad ears, I can hear you wailing, Iris. I've listened to it nonstop since he left and now, well, enough is enough.” She reaches out with her arm, and for a moment, I think she wants to shake me. I'm relieved when she lets her arm drop back to her side.

“How long did you cry after Nelson died?”

“A long time. But that was different. Nelson was different. Anyway, I'm an old woman and I didn't come here to argue, Iris. I came to invite you for tea.”

I can't stay upset with Mrs. Karpman. “I have a better idea. Why don't you have tea here?”

It's Mrs. Karpman's first time inside the loft. “I think he likes me,” she says when William Shakespeare brushes up against her. “Maybe he smells canary.”

Mrs. Karpman has never tried herbal tea. I tell her chamomile is supposed to be relaxing. “Red Rose relaxes me just fine,” she says, but when she tries the chamomile, she says she likes it.

“You get used to it,” she says. At first, I think she means chamomile tea, but then I realize she is talking about Mick's being gone.

“I haven't told you yet,” I tell her, “but I'm going to Melbourne. To be with him—and to go to theater school. I'm leaving as soon as my last exam is over in June.”

Mrs. Karpman nearly spills her chamomile tea. “I think that's an awful idea, Iris. Imagine following some man to the other end of the earth. Especially a man who's as temperamental as that Aussie.” When Mrs. Karpman calls Mick
temperamental
, I know it's because of what she suspects. “Above everything else,” she adds, “a woman needs to be independent.”

I can't believe it when she says that! “You weren't independent. And look how well it worked out for you.”

“That's beside the point. Those were different days, Iris. Few women earned their own livings. We depended on our husbands to support us. If you had a bad husband—one who cheated or beat you”—she watches my face, but I'm careful not to react—“there wasn't much you could do about it. I was lucky with Nelson. But I'm independent now and I'm enjoying it, thank you very much. Nowadays women can do anything they want. To be honest, Iris, I still don't trust that fellow of yours. He's too smooth, and I know he loses his temper, even if you won't admit it.” She gives me a sharp look. “To me—or to yourself.”

I'm proud for standing up to her. “You can't keep saying bad things about Mick. I love him and that's that. If you want to stay my friend, you'll have to accept that and support my decision.”

When she nods, I know I've won my case. “Will you at least promise to send me postcards—and to visit whenever you're back in Montreal? To be honest, I did hope you and Errol might—”

I cut Mrs. Karpman off before she can finish her sentence. “I promise.”

Mrs. Karpman takes another sip of chamomile tea. “So is he there yet—in Australia?” she asks.

“He was supposed to arrive last night. Our time, that is.”

“I suppose he's been on the phone with you, acting all lovey-dovey, hasn't he?”

I give Mrs. Karpman my bravest smile. I don't want to admit that since he left I haven't heard a word from Mick.

I serve Mrs. Karpman store-bought chocolate-chip cookies. Before she goes, she pats me on the cheek. “I know it hurts to be alone, dear. But you're a courageous girl.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Of course I do. It's one of the reasons I like you so much.”

I text Mick, but he doesn't text me back. I know his plane arrived on time because I followed his flights online. It's a long trip, so maybe he went straight to bed. He'll text or phone me when he wakes up.

I don't feel like studying, but when I finally get down to it, it helps. When I can't read any more about gross national product and how it's calculated, I take a break to look at theater programs in Melbourne.

There's a school called the Victorian College of the Arts. It's part of the University of Melbourne, and it offers a bachelor's degree in theater arts. I click on the link for the program. There's a video ad. In it, I see short clips of students doing warm-up exercises like the ones Ms. Cameron uses, and other clips from theatrical performances. Some of the students are doing mime. Others are in musicals. One is of a choreographed fight between a guy and a girl.