Heartache and Other Natural Shocks (30 page)

And suddenly I do. She’s the girl from Dad’s store. “Yeah, hi,” I say. “We met before.”

“Jules is visiting for the weekend,” Dad says.

“Not really,” I say, looking pointedly at Dad.

Dad sighs. Monique raises an eyebrow. Dad scratches his head like a dog with fleas. Monique glares at him. Dad winces. And suddenly I can tell that something is off. There’s something going on here that I’m not getting. And now Dad has a pained expression on his face. He’s going to say something I don’t want to hear, but I’m too stupid to figure it out. The dots are there, but I’m not connecting them. I mean, animals have instincts, but not me. I am the dumbest sheep in the flock. I just smile while my dad raises his ax in the air.

“You see, Jules,” he says, “about the apartment … it’s not going to work, because … the thing is … we’re moving in together.”

“Who?” I ask.

“Monique and me.”

I almost laugh. I still don’t get it. What is he saying? Dad and Monique? He’s renting a place with the girl from his store? But he’s her boss, and they have nothing in common. They won’t even watch the same channel on
TV
.

Faintly, I hear the whoosh of the ax, but even now, it’s like my mind cleaves in two. The intelligent half goes into shock, but the stupid sheep half keeps staring at Monique, thinking
I’m his daughter, and you’re the clerk. Dad would never
choose you over me. And I would be so much more fun as a roommate
.

And then, Monique’s arm snakes around my dad’s waist. Freeze frame. Flash. Ka-boom. All my synapses fire at once. Direct hit. Wave of shock. Ears ringing. Shrapnel. Blood. Burnt flesh. Can’t breathe. Can’t move. Dad’s mouth in slow motion. Images burning up on the screen: “… was going to tell you … didn’t know … once we’re settled … sofa bed …”

The ax slams deep into my chest. I hear a horrible groan, and it’s coming from me. Monique’s smile fades and blurs. Dad’s arm reaches out for me. His hand squeezes my shoulder tightly, and this causes tears to spurt out of my eyes. His head tilts. I can’t hear what he’s saying. It looks like his head’s going to roll off his neck, but I can’t see clearly with all these tears. I’m drowning. My breath gurgles. I’m backing away. Baby steps. The way you retreat from a rabid dog.

“Jules …”

“No.” I’m zipping my boots, but my hand keeps banging against my leg. Thud-thud, thud-thud. Body convulsing. My legs are wax. I can’t breathe. I reach for my bag. Dad tries to take it. “Let go!” I shriek. I yank it away. I swing my bag hard at his knees. “Get away!” I screech like an old crow. “Leave me alone!” A long, low howl.

He drops his arms. I stagger outside. I run down the street, bag thumping, turn the corner, cross the road, stumble into the field of my childhood school, drag my bag to the
kindergarten entrance, crumple onto the cement steps. This cannot be happening to me. Not my dad! No! No! I curl up into a tiny ball. I’m inside out. I’m a hollow gourd. I cry so hard, I almost puke. I cry until my bones ache.

Time passes. My head throbs. My head is a bowling ball. My lips are puffy, like the Pillsbury Doughboy. A thin line of drool hangs from my chin. It stretches all the way to my sleeve, like a glistening, silver spider’s thread. This isn’t real. I want to wake up. I stare at the big double doors of the kindergarten. I want to start my life over.

Kindergarten. I am six years old, all dressed for school: pleated navy tunic, crisp white blouse, navy knee socks, new shoes. The socks itch. I grip Mom’s hand. She smiles at me. She promises she’ll be right there, waiting, when I come out.

Inside, there are colored tables: red, yellow, green and blue. The teacher tells us to sit up straight, hands folded, like good children. Later, we paint. I wear a smock and stand in front of a big easel. The paint is floury and frothy on top. It smells sharp and sour, and it streaks across the paper in bright, grainy, runny lines. I paint a house with a pointy roof, a yellow sun in a blue sky, Mom, Dad, baby Bobby and me. Little stick figures, all smiling.

After, we play instruments in a band. I like the triangle because it makes a
ping
when I strike it with my silver stick. The vibrations shiver to my fingertips.
Ping!
I’m a good girl.
Ping! Ping!
Good things happen to good girls.

So what happened? I don’t understand. How did I end up here? How can the person you love the most turn into the person who hurts you the most?

I stand up on stiff, unsteady legs and wander down the long street, my bag scraping against my jeans. Across the road is Dakin Park. I sit on a glossy red wooden swing. The heavy chains creak and clank. Mollie and I used to swing here for hours, higher and higher, leaning way back, so the world turned into a dizzying blur of blue sky and bright light.

The shadows lengthen. It’s cold now. A couple of teenage boys appear. They smoke cigarettes, talk in loud voices and jump on the platform of the merry-go-round. They spin and laugh, and then they leave. The sun dips down behind the houses. The sky flares pink and crimson. Evening rolls in, the color of a bruise. I can’t stay here, but where will I go? Not Aunt Connie’s because she’s my dad’s sister. Maybe she already knows about him. Do they all know? Does Joe know? Is that why he gave me his dorm number? Do Bubby and Zadie Epstein know? Somehow, I don’t think they do. I decide I’ll stay at their house tonight. Tomorrow, I’ll take the train back to Toronto. Mom won’t even have to know I’ve been gone.

Zadie is the one who answers the door. He’s wearing his usual brown pants, white shirt, black suspenders and cracked, faded leather slippers. He stares at my face for a long moment, then down at my hockey bag, then back to my face. “Jules,” he says. “What a nice surprise.” He hugs me gently
and calls out, “Bubby! You’ll never guess who’s here.” He pats my cheeks and leads me inside.

Bubby squawks with delight to see me. “No one told me you were coming!” she exclaims. She clutches me tightly to her shriveled, bony chest and then steps back to admire me, as if I’m a living saint, a walking, breathing miracle. “Look how tall she is,” she says to Zadie. “But you’ve lost weight. You’re too thin.” She ushers me directly into the dining room, to the heart of the house, to fatten me up. If she notices my blotchy face and red eyes, she doesn’t say anything.

Bubby and Zadie have already eaten, so she busily sets the table for one: a blue-and-white Wedgwood plate, a crystal goblet and heavy silver cutlery. Everything in the house comes from estate sales and auctions. The ten Epstein grandchildren have all been taught to flip the plates and read the imprints of Bubby’s eclectic, mismatched collection: Spode, Royal Bavarian, Crown Staffordshire, Royal Doulton. The ceiling paint is yellowed and lifting. There are cracks on the walls and dusty spiderwebs laced into the chandelier, but we all focus on Bubby’s treasures: the vases, teacups, Venetian paintings and Quebec landscapes.

Bubby wobbles in from the kitchen carrying a plate bearing half a grapefruit, sliced into segments, topped with a maraschino cherry. A silver serrated grapefruit spoon rests on the rim. She places it before me.

“Bubby, I’m not that hungry,” I say.

“You ate?” she asks, horrified.

“No, but—”

“So eat,” she insists.

I push a cool wedge of grapefruit into my dry mouth. Zadie asks about school. Bubby shuffles back and forth between the kitchen and the dining room, bringing in platters of food. I offer to help, but she waves me to my seat, clucking her tongue and shaking her head. Finally, when all the food is arranged in front of me, she sits down and asks if I’ve seen my father yet.

“I dropped by the house, but he wasn’t there,” I lie. “Maybe I could stay here tonight.”

Bubby looks puzzled, but she says she’d be “deee-lighted.” She says, “Your father’s always busy these days.” She puckers her lips, as if she’s bitten into a sour apple. “He comes over to the house once a week for dinner. He reads the paper, and then he leaves.” Zadie reaches for the
Gazette
and retreats to the den. I guess he’s heard enough griping on this subject.

“I don’t understand your parents,” Bubby says, her eyes magnified behind her thick glasses. “They should not be living in two separate cities. A family needs to be together. Either your mother should move back here, or he should move there. This is ridiculous!”

So, she doesn’t know about Dad. I’m not the only one who’s been left in the dark.

“I know I’m old-fashioned,” Bubby continues, “but I say, when there’s children involved, the children come first.” She wags a crooked finger in the air. “And I understand about the politics. But still. I never see you anymore. And it’s the same with Seymour’s family in Florida. The whole family’s breaking apart.” She takes a dusty, wrinkled Kleenex from her sleeve and dabs at her eyes. I know exactly how she feels. And worse is yet to come.

I sleep in my dad’s musty ghost room. Bubby puts fresh sheets on the saggy bed. In the dark, I cry. My head feels slushy. My mind races on its hamster wheel. Why didn’t my mother tell me the truth? How could Dad trade her in? For his store clerk? A girl half his age? She’s closer in age to me than him. And when does he think he’ll see me again? For holidays? With Monique? My Kleenexes pile up into a soggy, white pyramid. I can’t think. I can’t stop thinking. I don’t sleep till early morning, and then I have violent, labyrinthine dreams.

In the morning, Bubby is in the kitchen cooking blintzes in her blackened cast-iron pan. I force a smile, but inside, I shudder: another painful trial by eating. Bubby urges me into a chair. She brings out bagels, cream cheese, lox, fresh fruit and gooseberry jam. Fortunately, I don’t have to talk because she launches into a lecture about raw fish. “The Japanese eat their fish raw,” she says, her face contorting into a grimace. “And raw fish have worms.” She opens a drawer crammed
with yellowing newspaper clippings. Her fingers flutter through the deep pile until she finds the fish article. “Read this. Worms. A boy died!” I skim the article. I promise that raw fish will never touch my lips, except for lox, which, being smoked and Jewish, is okay.

The buzzer rings. Bubby’s eyes widen like Mr. Magoo’s from the cartoons. “Who could that be?” She shuffles to the door, but I already know who it is.

Dad walks in, all smiles. “Hey, poopsie, how’re you doing?” he asks. He slides into the chair opposite me.

“Do you want some blintzes?” Bubby asks him.

“Could I say no?” Dad winks at me. Yesterday, I might have winked back, but not today. Those days are done. As soon as Bubby leaves the room, Dad drops his smile and leans across the table. “Did you tell her anything?” he whispers.

“No.”

He exhales, relieved. Obviously, the idea of his parents knowing about Monique has been gnawing at him. “I don’t want to upset her,” he explains.

What about upsetting me?
I think. “So you’d rather lie,” I mumble.

Dad sighs. “Jules, I didn’t want you to find out like that.”

“How
did
you want me to find out?”

Bubby calls out, “Irv, coffee?”

“Sure, Ma.” He turns back to me. “After breakfast, I’ll take you to the house, and we’ll have a talk.”

“About what?” I ask. “Why you’re dumping my mother? Or why you’re screwing your store clerk?”

“Don’t you speak to me like that, young lady,” he hisses. “I am still your father.”

“Funny, you don’t act like it.”

We hear the sound of a coffee cup rattling on its saucer as Bubby totters into the room. Zadie walks down the hall. He says, “I thought I heard Irv’s voice.”

I can’t bear to look at my dad. Bubby heaps blintzes on my plate. Dad chats with Zadie about the store. I glance at his receding hairline and his paisley shirt, which suddenly seems too young for him. It’s embarrassing; he’s going to be the joke of the family.
Did you see Irv with his French-Canadian shiksa? Hoo-ha, what a babe. She’s young enough to be his daughter. Next thing you know, he’ll be driving a red Camaro and going to the disco
.

Dad looks across the table at me and says, “So, how’s Bobby doing in school?” Is he actually trying to make small talk with me? “He had a good hockey season, eh?”

I don’t respond. I don’t care who’s in the room; I am not playing this game.

“Is your mom enjoying her job?” he asks.

I want to throw hot coffee in his face. Bubby looks from Dad to me. I get up. “I have to check the train schedule,” I say.

As I leave the room, Bubby asks Dad, “What’s going on?” I don’t know what lie he tells her, but by the time I come back
downstairs, Dad and Zadie are reading the paper, and Bubby is clearing the table.

“I’m catching the noon train,” I say.

“You’re going back today?” Bubby asks. “You just got here!”

“I have things to do.” Dad offers to drive me to the station. I say, “I’ll take the bus.”

Zadie says, “Don’t be silly. Your father will drive you. Especially with your heavy bag.” Zadie looks me right in the eye. He doesn’t say much, but he’s nobody’s fool.

Bubby packs me a lunch. Zadie gives me a chocolate bar from his stash in the sideboard. I kiss them both. Bubby presses her soft, papery face against my cheek and whispers, “I love you, darling. Remember that. No matter what, I love you.” She looks at me with tears in her eyes, and I can’t decide if she knows something or if these are just the tears of parting.

In the car, Dad and I stare straight ahead. He drums his fingers on the steering wheel. Finally, he says, “I know you’re upset. I don’t blame you.” He glances at me. “Your mother wanted me to tell you in person. I was going to come down and tell you soon.”

“And the rest of the family? Do they know?”

Dad nods. “They know.”

“Oh.” I bite down hard. I can feel my jawbone right up to my ears.

Dad sighs. “Look, Jules, it’s not like I went looking for this. Monique and me … we fell in love. It’s just something
that happened, okay?” I can’t believe he’s saying this—like having an affair isn’t a choice. Like it’s an act of God, an earthquake, a volcanic eruption, something totally out of his control. He says, “You know, your mother and I had a lot of good years together, but sometimes people drift apart.”