Girl on the Other Side (5 page)

“I don't care if she's on the phone with the Queen of England. All I know is that if she spent as much time doing her job as she does talking on the phone, maybe our house wouldn't be falling apart.”

David runs a hand through his thinning hair and sighs.

“Ladies, please. Can we get back on topic?”

We both ignore him.

“Falling apart?” I reply. “What are you talking about?”

“There's a dripping faucet in your bathroom. Apparently this has been going on for weeks and nobody bothered to tell me about it. I only discovered it when I went looking in your bathroom for my hair dryer.”

“That's my fault, not Nanny's.”

“No, darling … she's the employee, not you.”

Our meals arrive before I have the chance to reply. God, these two are so selfish! And immature! How can I be related to them? I pick up my fork and twirl my fettuccini around and around until it rolls up into a big, creamy ball. Then I look right at Catherine and shove it into my mouth.

“Mmmmmm …” I purr, lapping the gooey sauce off my lips. I'm trying my best to pretend that I'm enjoying the pasta, but really it's pretty vile. I haven't eaten anything this fatty in years, and desperately want to hurl it up into my napkin. But that would just make my mother happy. So I keep eating.

Unimpressed, Catherine turns away and ignores me. I hear David's BlackBerry buzz under the table. Pushing his chair back, he pulls it out and starts scrolling through a message. Of course, Catherine takes the opportunity to pull out her BlackBerry and begin typing an email. Suddenly, I feel very alone. That's when the white noise of the restaurant separates and for a moment I can hear every other conversation around me very clearly. Like one of those freaky optical-illusion puzzles that seem jumbled up, but when you look carefully enough you can see the picture hidden in the chaos of swirling colours.

The blonde lady with the glasses at the table beside ours is talking about her day.

The grey-haired fat man at the table behind ours is gushing about some hockey team.

The middle-aged mother in the red turtleneck at the table across from us is laughing and telling a story about one of her kids.

I look around me and see plush chairs, twinkling chandeliers, smooth linen tablecloths, beautiful couples, and nice families. Everything and everyone around us is so civilized and normal … and we're so pathetic and fake. I look down at the creamy white noodles in front of me and feel sick.

Pushing my plate away, I cross my arms in front of my chest, and scratch at my cold, bare, un-braceleted wrists.

God, I wish Nanny was here.

Lora

Dear God! I'm upstairs changing Cody's diaper when I hear the smoke alarm go off.

BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!!!!!!

A moment later, the stench of burning noodles wafts under my nose.

BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!!!!!!

Oh no!

Dragging my half-naked brother in my arms, I run down to the kitchen as fast as I can. When I get there, Allie and Chelsea run to my side, holding their ears and looking terrified. The alarm is loud, piercing, and urgent. I scan the room and see the pot of noodles smoking on the back burner of the stove.

BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!!!!!!

“It's okay, guys!” I yell above the noise as I lower Cody to the floor, grab the nearest chair, and climb up to where the alarm is installed. A second later, the cover comes off and I yank the battery out. For one blissful moment, the room is silent and then, like a trio of synchronized sobbers, they all burst into tears.

“It's okay …” I say again. But I know I'm not convincing anybody — least of all myself. Dinner is late, the kids are beyond hungry, and I'm on my own with them again — Daddy's on duty at the fire station tonight and Mommy hasn't been out of bed in four days.

I climb back down from the chair, pull the pot off the stove and pour the contents into a strainer. Most of the noodles are burnt and stuck to the bottom of the pot. The whole thing looks like a nest of charred, black worms. I scoop out the few noodles that are still edible into a bowl.

Gosh, what a mess! It's going to take me forever to clean this
pot,
I think, dumping it into the sink to soak. For a moment I consider throwing it out. But it's our only large pot and I don't have the money to replace it. Even though I make a decent salary at the coffee shop, I always end up giving it all to Daddy to help with Cody and Chelsea's daycare expenses.

“Lora?” whispers a voice.

I spin around and see Mommy standing there, holding onto the wall for support. Her red hair is sticking out from a messy ponytail in a fuzzy cloud of bed-head. Her face is paler than usual and her body is so thin, it makes her nightgown hang like a windless flag. I gasp to see her standing in our kitchen. She hasn't been downstairs in weeks.

“I heard the smoke alarm …” she says, taking a small, wobbly step forward. “What's going on down here?”

I run to her side to steady her. Her body is childlike and frail and if it wasn't for the bags of fatigue around her eyes, she might have passed for another sister. The little ones follow me, forgetting their hunger in the excitement of seeing Mommy downstairs. They surround us and hug her legs with joy, which of course throws her right off balance. She teeters dangerously until I take her by the arms and shore her up. Suddenly, I hear an authoritative voice speak:

“You shouldn't be out of bed. It was just a false alarm. Everything's under control down here — don't worry.”

Is that really my voice sounding so stern? I take a deep breath and try to get my irritation under control. I know Mommy wants to help, but she's just making my job harder by coming downstairs.

“Wait here, kids. I'll be right back and we can have dinner.”

Immediately, the kids start crying and screaming for Mommy to stay. I pry them off her legs and gently help her back up the stairs to her bedroom which, no matter how often we air it out, always smells of medicine and tears. She's as weak as a kitten in my arms and her legs wobble so much I worry she'll fall down. Trying to keep my brave face on, I put her back to bed. She looks relieved to be lying down again. As much as I want to stay, to cuddle up beside her and go to sleep, I know there's still work to do. I give her a quick kiss and leave.

When I get back to the kitchen, my still diaper-less baby brother hurls himself at my feet and whimpers: “Me hungry … want to eat!”

Right away, the others chime in with their complaints. Even my little assistant Allie can't find a way to help me tonight.

“Where's our dinner?”

“My stomach huwts, Lowa!”

“It's almost ready guys … just settle down
please
,” I beg, telling myself that this whole experience is excellent training for my future zoology degree. Honestly, sometimes these little kids are worse than a pack of wild animals.

“Chels … Al … maybe you two could help me out and set the table?”

Chelsea stomps her little foot on the linoleum floor and scowls.

“No Lowa! I don't wanna set the table … I want my skapetti!” she shrieks. I can tell by the crack in her voice what's coming next and brace myself for the worst. Sure enough, a second later she throws herself onto the floor in a full-blown, kicking, screaming temper tantrum. I want to scream too, but I bite my lip and hold it in. This isn't exactly the first time she's done this.

The best way to handle a toddler's tantrum is to ignore
it
, I can hear Daddy's voice clear as day, spouting advice in my ear.

Ha! Easy for you to say when you're not even here
, I think back as I frantically search the fridge for a jar of tomato sauce. I'm sure I saw one last week, lingering somewhere at the back.

“I know you're hungry, but I'm going as fast as I can,” I say, trying hard to keep my voice calm. But it's all an act. In reality, I feel like my head is going to explode from the pressure.

When I finally find the sauce, I cover the mushy, overcooked spaghetti with heaps of it, praying they won't notice the burnt noodles underneath. Dinner is cold, but at a time like this I really have no choice.

“Okay, everyone have a seat,” I say, dishing the food out into three small bowls. I don't serve any for myself. My stomach is aching, too, but I'm pretty sure it's from stress. I swear I don't even feel hunger anymore. Kids at school tease me all the time about my body and how skinny it is. But I can't help being an ectomorph. I've tried to eat more, but my stomach is always hurting. Dr. McMullon says it's because of anxiety and if I don't watch out I'll get an ulcer. I don't know how to tell him that getting an ulcer is the least of my worries.

As the kids gather around the table to inspect their ruined food, I notice the dismantled battery sitting on the counter.

Better install it again before Daddy gets home,
I think to myself. I know if I don't, he'll have a conniption. In his line of work, he's seen too many houses burn to the ground because there were no batteries in the smoke alarm.

A loud clattering noise breaks through my thoughts. My head whips up to see Chelsea scowling at me and pointing to the floor. My eyes follow the direction of her finger to the spot where her bowl of spaghetti has been overturned in a gory, tomato-y mess. Behind me, I can hear the unmistakable sound of clicking toenails racing across the linoleum and I know the dogs are on their way over to scavenge the dropped food.

“This is yucky, Lowa,” Chelsea declares, her face clenched tight like a fist. “I won't eat it. Make something else.”

That does it. Turning my head away from the kids, I lower my face into my hands and start to cry. I cry long and hard, until my cheeks are soaked and my mouth is salty with tears. I cry until there's no energy left in my body to cry anymore. I cry desperately, shoulders shaking and heart silently wailing:

Mommy, I need you to be healthy again. I can't do this all
by myself. I'm just a kid! Daddy, come home. You're trained to
save lives. Please … why can't you save mine?

April 28

tabby

“Where to now, guys?” I ask my BFFs as I drop the change back into my wallet. Hitching my purse up on my shoulder, I collect my new stuff and turn away from the cash register.

I finally cashed my birthday cheque yesterday — it had been sitting in my desk drawer for two weeks, making me sick every time I looked at it. If only I'd had the guts to rip it up in front of Catherine and David that night of my birthday. That would have really got their attention. But it's too late for that now. So instead, I've decided to spend the money fast. Maybe that'll help erase some of the anger I still feel over losing Grandma's bracelet.

“Um … let's try Roots,” suggests Brandi.

“No, let's do Garage,” says Dylan.

Because I can, I decide to overrule them both.

“No, I think we should take a break and get something to drink,” I say, with a nod toward the coffee shop on the other side of the mall.

“Okay,” says Brandi.

“Yeah, I could use a break,” echoes Dylan.

Of course they agree. Really, what choice do they have?

I lead the way while the twins follow behind. We make our way easily through the throngs of people. Today's Saturday and, since most of the stores are having sales, the mall is busy. But the crowd opens up to let me through — kind of like in that old movie Grandma showed me when the Red Sea parted for Moses.

When the twins and I get to the coffee shop, we stroll up to the counter to get our drinks. Of course, Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee wait to hear what I'm getting before making their orders.

“Large non-fat decaf latte, please,” I say.

“I'll have one, too,” says Dylan.

“Same for me,” Brandi chimes in.

While we fish change out of our wallets and wait for our coffees, I notice a familiar face standing on the other side of the counter. It only takes a second for me to realize that it's Lora Froggett pouring foam into our lattes. The twins notice, too. Dylan pokes my arm with one hand and points with the other.

“Look, Frog-face works here.”

“Ha! Maybe she's trying to earn enough money to buy a new wardrobe,” laughs Brandi.

I laugh, too.

“At least we can't see her Payless Shoes from this side of the counter,” Dylan adds.

Frog-face doesn't look up from the coffee cups, but I can see her cheeks turn a bright shade of pink so I know she's heard us. I don't feel bad. With all the bullying I've seen her take at school, our little comments are nothing.

Suddenly I feel twin elbows poking my arms and I realize that Dylan and Brandi are waiting for me to take my turn. I don't really have anything to gain by putting Lora down, but sometimes I just go along with the rest of them because I know they expect it. And let's face it, she's such an easy target.

“Here,” I say, dropping the change from my coffee into the tip jar, “… just a little something extra, so you can splurge on your next trip to Value Village.”

With the pennies still ringing against the glass, Lora's face dips down toward the floor and I think for a second that she might actually cry.
Damn, maybe that one wasn't so
harmless.
I turn away from the counter before the twinge of guilt that's pricking at my conscience can grow any bigger.

We pick up our cups and take a seat at a nearby table — the only empty one in the shop. It doesn't take long to see why nobody else is sitting there. Some slob has spilled their coffee and left their muffin crumbs all over the place.

“Excuse me, could we get this table cleaned? It's kinda gross,” I ask the hairy waiter who's standing nearby. Disgusted, I drop my shopping bags onto an empty chair and sit down.

A girl with green hair comes over to wipe down our table. As she's mopping up the crumbs, she accidently bumps Brandi's arm and tips over her latte. It spills all over the table and floor, just missing her brand-new pink Uggs. Brandi jumps to her feet and starts to yell at the waitress — who has a funny look on her face, like she's trying to swallow a smile. Brandi calms right down after the waitress promises to bring a new latte.