Gravity Brings Me Down (8 page)

It’s Mabel. There’s no escaping anyone in this stultifying town. Instinctively, I remove the Gauloise from my lips and hide it behind my back.

“Marie, darling, I’ve been looking all over for you.”

Our eyes meet and she frowns with concern.

“Why, Marie, whatever is the matter, dear? You look as though you’ve lost your best friend.”

She touches my face and I actually start to cry.

“Oh, no, no, no, no, no … don’t cry, dear. No, no. Come home, darling, I’ll make you something to eat and you can tell me all about it.”

Mabel takes me by the hand, gently raising me up. I’m so far gone, I let her escort me down the street toward her apartment. I don’t care who sees us. We stop in the foyer. She has her keys on the little bungee cord around her wrist and opens the door, no problem. At the elevators, she hesitates, so I press the button and we wait, her arm around my shoulders. When the doors open, we get on, and I push the button for the fourteenth floor. The elevator stops on the third. An old woman steps in. She looks at me suspiciously, but Mabel sets her straight.

“My daughter,” she says. “She’s the baby.”

The woman rides with us to the tenth floor where she gets off, forcing a smile on her way out. In the hallway on the fourteenth, Mabel hesitates once more, so I move toward her apartment. This seems to jog her memory because she produces her keys again and easily opens the door, ushering me in before engaging the lock behind us.

“Now then,” she says. “How about a nice cup of tea?”

She sits me down at her table and disappears into the
kitchen, running water, rattling pots, opening cans. It isn’t long before the kettle whistles and there’s a cup of tea in front of me, milk and sugar added.

Mabel sits down next to me with her own steaming cup. “So, tell me, what’s ailing you, child?”

“I wish I were dead.”

“Don’t say such things, dear.”

“It’s true. I wish I were dead.”

“Come now. What could possibly make you feel that way?”

I stare at the tea in my cup. “Life.”

“Life?”

“It sucks. People are stupid and mean and we’re all just going to die anyway so what’s the point of anything? I may as well just kill myself and get it over with.”

Mabel clucks her tongue. “Oh, my sweet girl, you know better than that. Of course it’s easier to just give up. But that’s the coward’s way. Life is what you make it, darling. Remember what Milton wrote …

“It’s all about choice, dear. There’s always a glimmer of hope in the darkness if you look hard enough.”

Mabel sounds so lucid, it’s freaking me out. I haven’t got the heart to tell her I think hope is a mental condition.

I grasp the porcelain handle of my teacup with my fingertips, taking a sip. The tea is scalding hot. It tastes good. “But what about when things happen that you can’t control?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Things.”

Mabel thinks about this for a minute. “Well, I believe the best thing to do in those cases is to pretend nothing has happened. If you don’t give it a second thought, nobody else will either.”

I look at Mabel for the first time since she found me on the bench. She has the kindest look in her eyes. She pats me on the hand and gets up to check on whatever she’s making in the kitchen. When she returns, she has two bowls of chicken noodle soup. I don’t tell her I’m vegetarian. Thankfully, she puts a little basket of bread on the table with some butter. I tuck into the bread because I’m actually hungry, despite the fact that my dirty underwear was kicked around the school and I was given a paper with a B-minus grade mere hours ago.

After eating a few pieces of bread, I get up from the table to avoid the soup and begin exploring Mabel’s things. There’s new music on the piano.

“Have you been practising?”

Mabel frowns. “I can’t find my glasses.”

I look on top of the piano. “Here they are,” I say, holding up a pair.

Mabel shakes her head. “Those aren’t the right ones. I have two pair. I keep misplacing them.”

“Oh.” I replace the glasses and inspect her collection of books. “You like to read.”

“Yes, of course, dear.”

“Who’s your favourite?”

“Oh, that’s not an easy question to answer.”

She has several rows of Shakespeare, so I ask which play she likes most.

Mabel comes over and stands next to me. “I love
Romeo and Juliet!”

She pulls the text off the shelf, opens it and begins to read.

“
But, soft! What light through yonder window breaks?”

“
It is the east, and Juliet is the sun
,” I say. I’ve heard Mom and Dad recite this so many times, I know it by heart.

Mabel closes the book reverently and continues. “
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, who is already sick and pale with grief, that thou, her maid, art more fair than she
.”

We go back and forth for some time, until we both start to laugh.

“You’re very good!” she says.

“So are you.”

I almost slip and tell Mabel about my mom and Shakespeare, but then I remember she thinks she
is
my mom, so it would just be too confusing. It’s hard enough for me to wrap my head around.

Mabel presses the book to her chest, gazing off into the distance. “I used to go to the theatre all the time.” Just as suddenly, she snaps out of it. “What time is it?”

“Noon.”

“
Coronation Street
is on.”

“You actually watch that?”

Mabel smiles. “It’s my addiction.”

As God is my witness, I never thought I’d be caught sitting on a couch watching some corny British soap opera like
Coronation Street
with anyone, let alone with an elderly woman I barely know. But today, I do exactly that. And here’s the sick part: I actually enjoy myself. It’s kind of like the “Greek catharsis” Mr. Farrell is always talking about in English. Watching all those train-wrecked people screw up their lives makes me feel better about my own miserable existence. I forget about Chocko and Biff and everything for a little while. And I have to admit: Mabel is good company. She doesn’t pressure me about this or that, asking all kinds of probing questions. It’s the kitten thing all over again; you think you’re helping the kitten, but at some point you realize the kitten is really helping you. All Mabel wants is someone to share things with. Who can blame her for that?

By the time I leave Mabel’s, there’s no point going back to school so I just make my way home. When I get there, Mom is waiting for me.

“Where have you been?”

I can tell she’s furious because she’s not talking like Shakespeare.

“I was helping an old lady.”

“Don’t you dare be flippant with me.”

“I’m not being flippant. I
was
helping an old lady.”

“The school called and said you skipped after first period.”

I think about this for a second. “I was having a bad day.”

“So you left school to help an old lady?”

“Essentially, yes.”

Mom throws her hands in the air. “Why do I bother?”

“She’s a nice old lady named Mabel. She lives in that cruddy apartment building on the corner downtown. She’s really lonely and she has trouble remembering where she lives sometimes.”

This piques Mom’s curiosity, like I knew it would. She’s a bleeding heart, always telling me that I should help other people, etc., etc.

“What about her family?”

I pull the jug of milk from the fridge. “I think her kids have abandoned her.”

“That’s awful!”

“I know.” I pour myself a glass of milk and retire to my room. Mission accomplished. I won’t hear another word about skipping school.

When I reach my room, my cell rings. It’s Sharon. She wants to talk about my underwear. Sensitivity is not one of her strong points.

“Do you think the janitor took them? Maybe Chocko has them in a plastic bag in his freezer … how gross would that be?”

I’m tempted to hang up, but then I remember what Mabel said about pretending everything is fine. I change
the subject to Gus, which Sharon would normally jump all over, but she seems somehow discouraged that my world isn’t coming to an end over a dirty pair of underwear. She switches gears effortlessly to another topic guaranteed to make my head implode.

“Oh! You know who I saw with that skank Michelle Miller?”

“Who?”

“Darin’.”

“What?”

“Darin’. They were walking together.”

I’m sure somewhere in her primate brain she thinks she’s doing me a favour by telling me this but all she’s really doing is upsetting me. “What do you mean?”

“You know … they were together.”

“How do you know?”

“They were walking next to each other. Duh.”

“Maybe they live on the same street.”

“She lives on the south side. He’s over on Victoria.”

“Okay, whatever.”

“So … that means they were together.”

“Yeah, right. I get it.”

“What’s he doing with a skank like her?”

“I honestly don’t know. I have to go.”

“What? We’re supposed to work on our CP stuff tonight.”

“My mom’s calling me for dinner.”

“It’s 4:15.”

“We’re eating early tonight,” I lie. “Peggy’s got practice.”

“Oh. I see.”

“I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

“Yeah, whatever.”

I can’t believe Darin’ likes Michelle. What could he possibly see in her? They’re not even from the same species, let alone the same planet. Not to mention that she’s a useless airhead with more boobs than brains …

I think I just answered my own question. But I thought Darin’ was different from other guys. I thought he wrote poems on popcorn bags. I guess I was wrong. I guess he can’t resist the force of those melons. My tangerines can’t possibly compete, gravitationally speaking. This has
definitely
been the worst day of my life.

I
can’t sleep, so I get up at the crack of dawn Wednesday morning to write in my journal. I’m sitting with Morta in my lap when I hear the sound of Tod’s moped. I go to close the blind on my window, which is a mistake, because Tod is already on the lawn, squinting up at me. I think to close the blind anyway but he motions for me to open the window. I shake my head. He motions again. I open the window a crack.

“It’s gone,” he says.

Once again, I have no idea what he’s talking about.

“Your name … on the bathroom stall. It’s gone.”

I open the window all the way.

“It’s been covered over in black indelible marker— probably a Sharpie. I licked my finger and rubbed it over the ink and it wouldn’t come off.”

“Who do you think did it?”

“I’m not sure but possibly Steve Ryan.”

“Steve Ryan? Why would he do it?”

“Well, he was in the bathroom when you went in to
erase your name, so logically, he’s the obvious candidate. And I’ve seen him using Sharpies in class.”

Tod pushes up his glasses, opening his mouth to say something else, but I shut the window and draw the blind before he has a chance to ask me out. I can’t believe Steve Ryan would actually risk erasing my name from the bathroom wall. He’s Biff’s best friend. In any case, whether he did it or not, I’m 100 percent grateful. And Tod’s good news actually gives me the strength to face school.

I take my time getting ready. Never again will I jump into a pair of pants before checking the legs for hitchhikers. As I’m dressing, my mom knocks on the door, then bursts in without waiting for a response.

“Peggy’s cheerleading audition for Total Motion Camp is tonight. Are you going to grace us with your presence?”

I stare at her like an alien until she closes the door. I can hear Peggy whining in the background about her stupid shirt or some other equally important thing. Just leave me out of it, is all I ask.

At school, I feel as if everyone is looking at me as I walk down the hall. I’m relieved that Steve Ryan, or whoever, took the time to erase my name from the boys’ room stall, but there’s still the matter of the underwear. Even though there’s no way to actually prove the underwear was mine (there’s still a shadow of a doubt at this point, as Dad would say), it
did
crawl out of my pant leg, so the logical conclusion is that I spawned it.

I’m doing as Mabel advised, pretending nothing happened, and it seems to be working, although I can’t stop checking the tops of my shoes, just in case. I’m so focused on my feet, I slam right into Steve Ryan on the way into physics class. We both duck away, mumbling apologies and avoiding each other’s eyes. I’m sure he’s more embarrassed than I am, having been caught with his pants down, but I still can’t bring myself to look at him.

Before I have a chance to gather my thoughts, Dr. Armstrong decides to give us a pop quiz. Why does he hate us so much? It’s way too early to be learning anything, let alone taking a quiz. This doesn’t stop Dr. Armstrong. He writes the question on the board:

I actually know this one: the critical speed is called the escape velocity, and on Earth, it’s 11.2 kilometres per second, which means the ball would have to fly faster than 11.2 kilometres per second to beat the machine and escape into outer space. A more relevant question would have been:

I answer Dr. Armstrong’s question, then spend the rest of the time doodling in my notebook. I’ve heard you can tell a lot about a person by what they doodle. It’s like a direct route to the unconscious or something. For anyone who’s interested, here’s a sample of my work:

After class, Sharon meets me in the hall to tell me she saw Darin’ with Michelle again. She’s determined to push me over the edge. I try to play it cool but she stabs me in the ribs with her elbow, gesturing with her head as Darin’ and Michelle walk by.

I pretend to read the new drama club poster. It advertises this year’s production, a play called
The Happy Moron
, written by some guy who used to go to our school. I’m sure he had no problem finding morons for his research. God knows there are enough attending Sunnyview High, of which Darin’ quite possibly is one.

“Are you going to this?” I say, glancing over my shoulder at Darin’ and Michelle.
They’re drooling shamelessly all over each other
…

“Yeah, right.”

“I thought you said you wanted to go.”
You can practically see the dotted lines from Darin’s eyes to her chest
.

“Isn’t Tod in that play?”

“I think he’s the sound guy or something.”
Michelle looks like an old eighteen-hour bra ad with those torpedoes
.

“Then you definitely want to stay away. He’ll think you’re in love with him or something.”

Sharon elbows me again as Darin’ and Michelle disappear down the hall. “What did I tell you?”

We turn to go to English. I think I’m going to be sick. I wonder what advice Mabel would give me now?

English is a total bust. The word “bust” makes me think of Michelle, which makes me think of Darin’, which makes me feel sick all over again. To make matters worse, Biff is in this class. Obviously he was forced to
take it because he can barely string a sentence together, let alone read. Every time I so much as turn my head, he does rude things with his tongue. Once again, Biff is undeniable proof that God doesn’t exist. I keep praying Biff will get struck by lightning and it hasn’t happened yet, so there’s another vote against the Big Guy.

Sharon wants to go to the Tip for lunch but I’d rather not. She’ll just talk on about Darin’ and Michelle until I’m ready to off myself. I give her some lame excuse and cut out, leaving her behind with the rest of the PIBs.

I find myself walking along Wellington Street toward Mabel’s. The truth is, I’d much rather spend my time with Mabel than think about Darin’ and Michelle. It’s funny, because Mabel and I hardly even know each other, but I feel I can talk to her about things. I mean, I could never tell my mom that I felt like killing myself because a pair of dirty underwear crawled out of my pants. She’d freak out and suggest counselling, which would just make matters worse. But Mabel didn’t freak out. She treated me with respect, like a grown-up, instead of a little kid that everyone has to worry about all the time.

When I enter the building, Super Mario is there, giving me the evil eye from inside the lobby. Does the guy ever work? He watches me press the code for Mabel’s apartment. The phone rings and rings. Mario keeps watching, just in case I get any ideas. I’m about to leave when I hear a click and Mabel’s bewildered voice comes over the intercom.

“Hello?”

“Oh, um, hi…”

“Who is it?”

“It’s me … Marie.”

There’s a fumbling sound, like Mabel’s dropped the phone, but then the buzzer on the door sounds. I quickly slip through. Mario glowers in defeat. He stares as I wait for the elevator. When it arrives, I pray that its corroded cables won’t break, because I don’t want Mario’s face to be the last thing I see before I die.

Mabel is waiting in the hall when I arrive.

“What a lovely surprise, dear. I was just sitting down to my show.”

Right away I notice her hair is different. It’s cut in a very nice style for an older person.

“Did you go to Giovanni’s?” I ask.

Mabel smiles. “I used the money you sent me.”

“It looks great,” I tell her. And I mean it. I take a seat on the couch,
Coronation Street
blaring on the TV.

Mabel disappears into the kitchen and returns with a cup of tea. “It’s shameful. I haven’t got a biscuit to offer.”

“That’s okay.” I take the cup of tea and gesture at the TV. “What’s happened since last time?”

“Oh, well… you know … the usual nonsense.”

We laugh as Mabel takes her seat and sips her tea beside me.

I watch the TV, trying to keep track of the story, but there’s too much going on. So-and-so likes so-and-so, but so-and-so found so-and-so sleeping with so-and-so. It’s just a tangle. I turn to Mabel.

“You know, this show just confirms all my beliefs.”

“About what, dear?”

“People. They’re all totally insane.”

Mabel looks at me thoughtfully. “But, people are just people, dear. Everyone is crazy from someone else’s perspective.”

Once again, Mabel astonishes me. I just never know what’s going to happen around here.

When the show’s over, I collect our cups and bus them to the kitchen.

“Oh, don’t worry about the dishes, dear,” Mabel says, as I run the water in the sink.

“It’ll only take a second.”

Once the cups are rinsed and dried, I open the cupboard to put them away. That’s when I notice something funny about the rest of Mabel’s dishes. There are glasses on the shelf with old rings of juice in the bottom, and saucers dirty with crumbs. I guess she forgets to clean them before putting them away sometimes. I pull the dirty dishes from the cupboard and fill the sink again with soapy water.

Mabel watches nervously. “Did you find a dirty glass? I’m so forgetful these days.” She clutches the pearls around her neck and sinks into a chair at the table while I set to work.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” I reassure her. “I do it all the time… you know, because I’m in a hurry.”

“Do you really, dear?”

“Yeah, sure. Everyone does … once in a while.”

She gives me a worried look, like she wants to believe what I’m saying is true. “You’re such a good girl, Marie.”

When the dishes are cleaned and put away, I check Mabel’s fridge for food. I feel like the Gestapo but I can’t help myself. I’ve heard Mom and Dad talking about how the elderly never have enough money so they end up eating dog food, or something equally gross, right out of the can.

Of course Mabel’s fridge is nearly empty. There’s a tiny carton of 2-percent milk and a jug of water. And that’s it.

“You don’t have any food,” I say.

Mabel plays with her necklace. “Oh, I don’t need much.”

“Well, you don’t have much.” I check the rest of her cupboards. There are a few tins of soup and a bag of pasta that looks like it’s from the Sixties. What has she been living on?

“You really should get some groceries.”

“Please don’t get angry with me, Marie.”

“I’m sorry. I’m not angry … I’m concerned.”

Mabel looks away.

“Is it money?” I ask. “Because if it is, I can give you some.”

“Oh, I have lots of money.” She gets up from her chair and goes over to her desk where she produces an envelope from between two books. She hands it to me and I open it. There’s a huge wad of cash inside. Why am I sending her money for her hair when she’s obviously loaded? I do a quick count.

“There must be a thousand dollars here.”

Mabel smiles. “I told you.”

“So … why is there no food in the house?”

Mabel wilts. “I get lost,” she finally admits. “I start out knowing where I’m going … then I forget.”