So Much It Hurts (8 page)

“Mick!” Mick has laid out a small red-and-white checked cloth across the plastic divider between our seats. There's a sandwich for each of us and a tub of couscous salad with fat golden raisins. I hear a popping sound, and I see that Mick has even brought along a mini bottle of champagne and two collapsible plastic wine goblets. He pours a glass of champagne for me, then one for him.

“What are we toasting?”

“Let's toast to now,” Mick says. “Life is about now.” The words are simple, but coming from Mick, they sound deep. He's right, of course. That's all life is—now—and we need to celebrate it. Mick is teaching me that.

“To now!” I know it's real champagne because Katie told me real champagne isn't too sweet the way fake champagne is. Even a small bottle must have cost a lot.

Mick even loosens the plastic wrapping around the irises and hangs the bouquet from the side of the pedal boat so the ends of the stems will stay moist.

A woman is pointing at us from the path at the edge of the lake. She must be noticing the irises and our picnic stuff. I'll bet she wishes she had a boyfriend who was as romantic as Mick. A teenage boy has come to stand next to the woman. It has to be Antoine—no one else I've ever met has hair as big and frizzy as his.

I don't tell Mick about Antoine. Instead, I point toward the other end of the lake. “See that hill over there? That's where we go tobogganing in winter.”

Mick and I pedal in that direction. Our feet move in perfect synchronization.

When we are both out of breath, we stop to take a break. Antoine—and his hair—are out of sight.

“I have one more surprise for you, Joey,” Mick says, reaching into his pocket and pulling out another sheet of cream-colored stationery. This one is folded into a square. Mick hands it to me and I unfold it.

“You wrote me a poem?”

“What can I say?” Mick shrugs his shoulders. “You inspire me.”

When I read the poem Mick has written for me, I forget all about the ducks, Beaver Lake, the couscous salad and the real champagne.

“
Until you.
” I read that first line out loud, but when I get to the second line, my voice cracks.

“
I was small and lost, like a rudderless ship.”

I read the rest of the poem to myself. It's not easy, because my eyes are tearing up again and I have to keep wiping them.

Until you.

Nothing made sense.

Not a thing.

Not power, not work.

Not fame or success.

Until you.

I couldn't feel, not really feel.

Body or soul,

Until you were mine.

Mine to hold,

To shape

Like sweet soft clay.

I love you

So much I can't say.

So much

It hurts.

CHAPTER 11

“
Mark the encounter
.”
—HAMLET
, ACT 2, SCENE 2

“W
hat's your relationship?” The customs inspector peers into the Jeep. I can see him taking it all in— Mick, who has removed his sunglasses, in the driver's seat; me sitting next to him, my legs neatly crossed; the plastic water bottles at my feet; the pile of scripts in the backseat.

“We're together,” I answer.

“We're friends,” Mick says over me.

“Passports, please.” The inspector flips through Mick's passport first, pausing to look at some of the stamps inside. Mick has traveled to so many places. “So you're Australian?”

“Yes, sir.” Though the inspector is younger than Mick, Mick is being extremely polite.

“Ever seen a kangaroo?” the inspector asks.

“Lots of times,” Mick says.

The inspector opens my passport. “Where are you two heading today?”

“To Plattsburgh,” I answer. “We're going to meet up with my fa—”

Mick takes over. “With her father. He lives in Bangkok, but he's in the US on business. We have this letter from him.” Mick reaches between the two seats for the letter my father has faxed. “It authorizes me to accompany Iris to Plattsburgh.”

The inspector unfolds the letter. He looks up at me as he reads it, then nods. “How long will you be in the United States?”

Mick eyes the clock on the dashboard. “About six hours in total. I'll drop Iris back at her house tonight.” It's a lie, of course. Mick obviously doesn't want the border inspector to know I'll be spending the night with Mick like I do every Saturday night.

The inspector taps something into his computer, then waves us through. Mick puts his sunglasses back on and checks his reflection in the rearview mirror. “Next time,” he says without looking at me, “let me do the talking, all right?”

If Mick notices I'm quieter than usual, he doesn't mention it. He knows I'm nervous. I glance at the clock. We're meeting my father at a restaurant called Friendly's in downtown Plattsburgh.

We can see the red and white sign almost as soon as we exit the highway. Mick reaches out to squeeze my hand. “I'll be right beside you, Joey.”

What do you say to a father you haven't seen in over twelve years—and whom you can't remember? Why didn't I think to come up with a list of things to talk about?

I recognize him right away. He is sitting in a booth at the front of the restaurant, watching for me.

He knows it's me too. He stands up (he's taller than I expected), and for a second I worry that he is going to try and hug me, but he reaches for my hand instead.

“I-ris.” He says my name slowly, like he's been practicing it for a long time. He has a goofy, lopsided smile. The kind of smile that must make people like him. But I won't let him win me over with that smile—not just like that. Not after what he's done to my mom—and to me.

“Mick, right?” He shakes Mick's hand. “Iris's friend?” Is it my imagination or does he sound suspicious? “Thanks so much for giving her a ride today. Everything go okay at the border?”

I slide into the booth, across from my father. Mick sits next to me, but he leaves enough room between us for a whole other person. I'd feel better if he was sitting closer to me.

My father beams at me. “I can't tell you how happy I am that you're here, Iris. That we're together. And I have to say—you're lovely. Really, really lovely.”

“Thanks.” I feel myself smiling back, even if I don't want to.

“You have your mother's eyes. She had the most amazing eyes.” He leans in closer, resting his elbows on the table. “To be honest, Iris, I worried…well…that you might not even open that message I sent.” He watches my face as he speaks, as if he's gauging how much he can say.

“I almost didn't open it.”

He nods to let me know he understands. “I'm glad you did. So glad.” He clears his throat. “Well then, we've got some important decisions to make.”

Mick looks up from his menu. I know he's been listening to every word, watching out for me. If there are important decisions to make, Mick will want to be involved.

But then my father grins and waves the menu. “I'm dying for pancakes. What about you two?”

I can't help laughing. Mick laughs too. It's getting harder to resist my father's smile.

We all order pancakes. “Pancakes were one of the first things you ever ate,” my father tells me. “Only I think you liked the maple syrup more than the pancakes. You got your sweet tooth from me.” He taps his chest, then looks at me. “This feels pretty weird, doesn't it?”

“That's for sure,” I tell him.

“Well, we've got to start somewhere,” he says. “Today's our start.”

I nearly tell him our start was seventeen years ago.

“I still can't get over what a beauty you are. Not that you weren't a beauty when you were little. I'm the one who picked your name. Did you know that?”

“No.”

My father closes his eyes. It gives me a chance to study his face. There are bags under his eyes and the skin on his cheeks is slack, but he is still a handsome man. He would have been even handsomer when Mom fell in love with him. He opens his eyes. “Your mom and I had a patch of purple irises in the backyard. And a little yellow birdhouse on our elm tree. You used to love to sit by the window in your high chair and watch the birds fly in and out.”

“I did?”

“I remember it like it was yesterday.”

I don't have the heart to tell him I don't remember any of it. That I hardly remember him.

I know it's silly, but I'm bothered when my father turns to Mick. Katie might be right: maybe I do have abandonment issues. “So how do you know Iris exactly?”

“We've been working together on a theater production. Iris is very talented.”

“Of course she is,” my father says.

He turns back to me. “You said you're playing Ophelia. How's that going for you? You getting into character? Making the transition from obedient daughter to desperate lovelorn girlfriend?”

I didn't expect him to use an acting expression like
getting into character
or for him to know so much about Ophelia. “It's going pretty well. I really like being her. I like how she feels things so deeply. I can relate to that.”

My father nods. His eyes sparkle in a way that makes him look even more handsome. “I know exactly what you mean about relating. I guess you know I did a little acting at university…before…”

For a moment, I wonder if I've heard right. “You were an actor?”

My father laughs. The laugh, low at first but building almost to a cackle, startles me. It sounds so much like mine. “I wouldn't call myself an actor. But I was in a couple of shows when your mom and I were at McGill. I figured she'd have mentioned—”

“She doesn't like to talk about you. It upsets her.”

My father runs one of his fingers over his lips, then crosses his hands on the table. “I can't say I blame her. I put her through the ringer…” He sighs, as if he regrets all the trouble he caused. “After everything happened”—he doesn't say what
everything
is—“and I had to leave the country, I tried to talk her into coming with me. So the three of us could be together.” It's not hard to tell he still feels sorry for himself. As if he thinks he's the one who suffered most.

“You abandoned me,” I tell him. “You abandoned us.”

He winces. “I guess it looks that way, doesn't it? But Iris, I need you to know I wish things could've been different.” He looks down at his plate and then back up at me. “A girl needs a father,” he says softly.

“I've done okay without you.”

“I can see that. I'm proud of you, Iris. Really, I am.” His eyes are getting misty. I can tell he's trying to swallow back his tears—the way I am. I don't want to feel sorry for him, but it's hard not to.

“I don't need you to be proud of me. I don't need you at all.” Somehow, I manage to say it without crying.

My father wipes his eyes with his napkin.

I feel Mick's palm on my knee now, steadying me. I take a deep breath.

What would my life have been like, I wonder, if Mom and I had followed this man? I'd have grown up somewhere else. And I'd probably never have met Mick.

My father clears his throat. “Look, I don't want to badmouth your mother—”

“Then don't.”

“Well, let's say she can be pretty tough. She insisted on full custody. She knew I wouldn't fight her. Couldn't fight her. I had my hands full”—he looks down at his hands— “with business matters. I tried to stay in touch, Iris. You've got to believe me. I used to phone. But she didn't want me talking to you. Then she changed the number. It killed me.”

“You're still here.”

“You know what I mean.”

Thank God for Mick. I could never handle this alone. Having Mick here makes me feel stronger.

The waitress brings our food, and Mick waits until we are eating our pancakes before he speaks. He must sense that my conversation with my father has gone far enough. “So what kind of work are you doing in Bangkok?” Mick's voice is calm, interested.

“I'm an…an investor. In telecommunications. We're working on some new products. They're going to revolutionize the industry.” My father's voice sounds lighter, brighter, comfortable. As if he's said these same things many times before.

“That sounds promising,” Mick says. I can't tell if he means it.

My father checks his cell phone, which he's left out on the table, near his napkin. He sees that I notice. “Hey, I don't want you thinking I'm rude, Iris. It's just I need to be in touch with my people at all times. In this industry, you never know when a deal will break.”

I'd half expected my dad would want to do something after lunch—go for a walk along Lake Champlain, wander through the mall at the other end of the parking lot—but he says he's tight for time; he needs to be in New York City for a dinner meeting. Something about getting together with an important investor and a side trip to Atlantic City.

Before we got to Friendly's, I was already planning excuses for why Mick and I wouldn't be able to stay in Plattsburgh.
I have an exam to study for. More lines to
memorize. There'll be traffic at the border
.

When my father says he has to go, I'm relieved but also, somehow, disappointed.

My father acts insulted when Mick offers to pay the bill. “No way. It's mine.” He puts his hand over the bill so Mick won't be able to take it. “It's the least I can do.”

Then he reaches into his pocket. “I nearly forgot— I've got something for you, Iris.” He takes out a small box wrapped in layers of pale green tissue paper. “The paper,” he says softly, “it's the color of your eyes…and your mom's. I haven't asked—how is she?” It's hard to read the look in his eyes. Curiosity? Regret?