The Opposite Of Tidy (28 page)

“Mom!” Junie yanked free of her father and ran back to her mother. She gave her a hug, and her mom held onto her tight. “Don’t listen to him, Mom. You’re doing great. I’ll be home later. I promise. I’m doing this with you. Okay?”

“He’s right. He’s right, he’s right, he’s right.” Her mother wiped at her tears. “I am a horrible mother.”

“You’re not. You’re
not.
” Junie tossed a glare at her father, but he wasn’t having any of it. He held her look, his jaw clenched, face tight with anger. “He’s just mad. Everything will be okay.”

“Junie,” her dad barked. “Now!”

“I’m coming, Dad. Just
wait
.” She gave her mother another hug. “I love you, Mom. Do you hear me? I love you.”

This started the tears again in earnest. “I love you too,” her mother choked out as the cameraman stepped closer.

Turning on her father, Junie shoved him toward the door. He’d already made quite a scene for the camera crew.

She just wanted to get him out of there before he created any more drama.

He stormed toward his car, waited until Junie was buckled up and then stomped on the gas pedal, squealing his tires as he sped away. Junie looked behind them. The camera crew had followed them and was filming him racing off. If drama made good TV, then
The Kendra Show
was going to win awards for featuring Junie’s screwed-up family.

NINETEEN

Evelyn St. Claire’s loft was sleek and modern, the décor lifted right out of
Home & Style
magazine. Everything was staged, so that no matter where your gaze landed, you saw something that was most definitely meant to be there. Whether it was a throw angled over the edge of the white leather couch, or a carefully aligned stack of art books on the coffee table with a wrought-iron candelabra resting on top, Evelyn St. Claire had put a lot of thought into it all. Even the candles in the candelabra seemed to be artfully, stylishly melted.

Junie kicked off her shoes and slumped on the couch, kicking the throw to the floor and pushing the books askew with her toe. She wondered if they’d had the candles lit for their stupid silent retreat. Who did that? What New Age weirdos did that?

Her father brought her a glass of water with a slice of lemon floating on top. The same New Age weirdos who put lemon in their water. He was turning into a pretentious snob, just like Evelyn St. Claire.

“Where’s Princess?” Junie didn’t know what else to talk about. The business back at the house, the whole Kendra thing, seemed overwhelming and dangerous.

“With Evelyn.” Her father settled on the couch beside her, cupping his own glass of water with both hands. “She’s working with this eccentric old millionaire who has an art collection like you wouldn’t believe. She’s helping him create a gallery in his home, and then she’s cataloguing the rest that he hasn’t got room to show.”

Junie didn’t care. She really didn’t care. “That’s interesting.”

She and her father sat side by side, ignoring the hugeness between them until they couldn’t any longer.

“I think it’s going to help,” Junie finally said.

“Well, fine and great if it does. I don’t want you on that show.”

“But I’m part of her life, Dad. A big part.” Junie was surprised at her reaction. She’d spent the whole day wishing the cameras away, but now that she’d gotten her wish, she wasn’t so sure she wanted it. “I’m part of the story too.”
And so are you
, she wanted to add. But she didn’t. He wasn’t really a part of her mother’s story now. Never mind the seventeen years they’d been married. He’d walked away. He was gone now. “You don’t really have a say any more,” Junie said gently. “You can’t have it both ways. You left. It’s me and Mom now. Not you, me and Mom.”

Her father looked at her with steely, dark eyes. “I’m still your father.”

“But I’m not six.” Junie set her glass down on the polished coffee table. Her father scooped it up and slipped a coaster underneath. This irked her more than it should have. She took a deep breath before she spoke again. “So you can’t really tell me what to do.”

“You’re not an adult yet, either, so technically, I can.” When Junie didn’t reply, he shifted uncomfortably beside her, first placing his hands on his knees, and then crossing them across his chest. Finally, he got up and climbed the stairs to the loft bedroom.

It had been a long time since her father had parented her. Even before he’d left the house he had already checked out emotionally, years before. He’d spent all his time sitting at a small desk in the corner of the master bedroom, surfing the Internet, chatting online, ignoring the mess around him. Junie had never really been parented, she realized. She’d been growing up with a mother and father, but hadn’t really experienced either. She’d been ripped off. She figured that she should be angry about the realization, but she wasn’t. She was tired, and sad. Nebulously, viciously sad.

Junie folded her legs under her and gazed out the window at the tall orange cranes down on the docks, the stacked shipping containers and the harbour beyond. She wanted to talk to Wade. More than anything. She didn’t want to be there with her father. She didn’t want to go home. She wanted to go find Wade. She wanted him to put his arm around her and pull her into him. She wanted to
be tucked away, somewhere wonderful. And that was with Wade. Or had been, until she blew it.

Junie looked at the time on the massive clock halfway up the exposed brick wall. Evelyn had bought it at an auction of items from a tiny train station way up north that had been decommissioned. Junie liked it, actually, but had never told her so. She wasn’t particularly interested in ever giving Evelyn St. Claire any reason to smile. It was after two o’clock now. Wade was probably on his way to Chilliwack. Without her. Junie closed her eyes. She was in the passenger seat in his van, staring out the window at the blue sky, the power lines zipping by. Patsy Cline on the stereo. She glanced over at Wade. He smiled at her. Winked.

Junie opened her eyes. Not the van. No blue sky. No smile.

What would it take for him to forgive her? She would ask him. As hard as it would be to make those words come out of her mouth, she would do it. She missed him. She tried his cell but he didn’t answer. She got his voice mail and left a message, her voice low so her father wouldn’t hear.

“Wade? Talk to me? Please? Let me explain? I miss you.” Junie’s voice caught. “I really miss you. I screwed up and I just want to explain. I’m at my dad’s. Call me.” She hadn’t asked what it would take to forgive her. It didn’t seem like a question for voice mail. She didn’t think he would call. Not anytime soon, anyway. She wouldn’t have, if she’d been him. She clutched the phone and stared at it, wishing she could make the call over again. She’d sounded desperate. Nervous. Pathetic. No one she’d want to love.

Her father came down the stairs and disappeared into the kitchen. Junie heard the fridge open, the kitchen tap running, and then he returned to the living room with two shiny apples.

“A peace offering.” He set one on the table in front of her, and took a bite from the other. He chewed, every crunch like road construction in Junie’s head. She stared at her apple, knowing that she had to pick it up at least, if not eat it. She slid her eye to the side, to catch a glimpse of her father without him knowing. He took another bite, his lips smacking, the apple glistening and wet. Junie’s stomach lurched. She picked up the apple, the phone still in her other hand.

“Can I take this with me?” she asked him, meaning both the phone and the fruit.

Her dad waited until he’d swallowed before asking, “Where are you going?”

“To lie down for a bit. I don’t feel so good.” Junie put her other hand to her stomach. She wasn’t faking. Her stomach felt like so much hardening cement.

“We should talk.”

Sure, now he wanted to talk. Almost a year after he’d left with hardly two words to say about it, now he wanted to talk. Well, Junie didn’t. She wanted to lock herself in a cool, dark room and come out when everything went back to normal. Or ahead, to a better normal where her mom was better and Wade had forgiven her. Ahead to normal.

“I just want to be alone for a bit. Okay?”

“I don’t want you on that show, Junie. I’m going to be firm about that. It’s not healthy. It’s not sane.”
Junie was too tired to argue any more. “Later, Dad. Please?”

“All right.” His expression softened. “I’ll wake you up for dinner.”

But Junie didn’t sleep. Her room at Evelyn St. Claire’s had actually been a walk-in closet before, just off the hall by the front door. So there was no window, and not much room for anything but the single mattress on a low platform and a small bedside table with a reading lamp on it. Her dad had drilled hooks into the back of the door so she could hang up her things, but other than that, there was nowhere to put anything. When he and Evelyn had first showed her the transformed closet, she’d been outwardly horrified and inwardly pleased. She’d told them it was cruel to keep a child in a closet, when, really, the small room was warm, inviting and ultimately cozy. It felt like a cocoon.

Evelyn had painted it turquoise blue—Junie’s favourite colour—and had strung fairy lights along the edge of the ceiling, along with a big silver star lamp that hung down in one corner. She’d sewn throw pillows to match the comforter (also turquoise), and a few more in a light purple, which was the colour she’d painted the bedside table. It was delicious and private and all Junie’s, even if she’d never admit to loving it. Like the clock. Truth was, Junie could easily understand why her father loved living here. It was so deliciously unlike home. If only it hadn’t included Evelyn St. Claire, who was so not like Junie’s mother. That was why her father wanted her instead. Junie knew that. She
might want it to be different, but she knew why it was the way it was. Evelyn was put together, beautiful, organized, interested in life and interesting. Her mother was . . . not.

Junie flopped down onto the bed and crawled under the comforter, even though it was already warm in the tiny room. She set the phone beside the pillow and stared at it when her eyes adjusted to the dark. She should call her mother and see how she was doing. But she didn’t want to know how she was doing. Instead, she willed it to ring. She wanted Wade to call her back. That was what she wanted. Badly.

It didn’t ring. For minutes, and then an hour, it didn’t ring.

She checked that it still had a dial tone. It did.

She told it to ring.

It didn’t.

She begged it to ring and be Wade. It didn’t. It wasn’t.

After what seemed like several hours, she turned the phone on just to see the time illuminated in the screen. It was only just past three now; barely an hour had passed.

She eventually did fall asleep, much to her surprise. When she woke up, she checked the time again. It was almost seven o’clock. She hadn’t meant to sleep that long. She reached over and turned on the lamp and sat up, groggy and thick. It took her a few moments to remember everything that had happened over the last twenty-four hours. But then it came at her in a rush.

Kendra, her mom, Wade, school.

With a groan, she fell back onto the pillows. If she turned off the light and closed her eyes, could she just sleep through it all? She didn’t think so. She could hear That Woman and her father talking in low voices in the kitchen, which was just at the end of the hall. She crawled closer to the door but still couldn’t make out what they were saying. After a couple of minutes, their voices grew more animated. Heated. Junie reached up and turned the door handle as slowly and soundlessly as possible. She pulled the door open a crack and peered down the hall.