Chapter 11
Jane
I don’t work out on the weekends. I let myself to sleep in, although lately, I’ve only been able to sleep until eight. When I was younger, I could sleep until at least ten if I didn’t set an alarm, but those days have passed.
I get dressed and pad downstairs. I’m the first one up today—often the case on Saturdays—so I make the morning coffee. When it’s ready, I pour mine into one of Evan’s mugs. It says “caffeine” and “chaos” on it, and the latter is not a word I’d ever use to describe myself, but I delight in the inappropriateness of it.
I’ve been sitting outside, enjoying the quiet grayness of the day, for ten minutes when Evan emerges. He takes a seat beside me. Neither of us immediately speaks, but that doesn’t seem weird. We see each other all the time; sometimes we have no words to say.
His phone buzzes, and he takes a look. “My parents are going to a restaurant near us for lunch. They’ll stop by afterward with some food, if that’s okay?”
“Sure,” I say.
“I’m planning on running some errands and visiting Isobel later. You’re welcome to come, but you don’t need to.”
“I’ll stay home.”
I like the idea of having some space, truth be told. I wouldn’t say I’m getting sick of Evan, but I lived alone for so long, and I crave some time by myself.
He squeezes my hand before sipping his coffee.
Much of our morning is spent on chores, but that’s okay. It’s nice to have a place that’s ours to care for. It’s also nice to have someone else do the laundry. Laundry is my least favorite chore, but Evan doesn’t mind it, and as long as he uses the right detergent—I have sensitive skin—I’m not too picky.
The doorbell rings at one thirty. Since Evan is upstairs, I open the door.
“Hi,” I say to Lynne and Howie. “Come in.”
They step into the front hall, and I’m reminded of the fact that the last time I saw them, Lynne tried to convince me to go on a honeymoon.
Fortunately, there’s no mention of that now.
“Don’t worry, we won’t stay long,” Howie says jovially. He doesn’t take off his shoes; he just stands on the front mat. “I’m sure you two newlyweds have lots of plans.” He holds a large reusable bag toward me. When I grasp it, I’m momentarily caught off guard by how heavy it is.
“You shouldn’t have,” I say, just as Evan appears at my side.
He greets his parents with hugs. His mother hands him another bag, which looks like it’s as heavy as the one in my hands.
After they leave, Evan and I unload the food in the kitchen. In addition to the containers from the restaurant, there’s fruit and numerous nonperishables, almost as if they think there are no Asian grocery stores in Richmond Hill.
Ha! There’s a T it doesn’t feel bad , though.
But when I head outside, I check social media and my heart plummets.
You know those people you follow on social media, even though you haven’t talked to them in a decade or more? Gina Bloomberg is one of those people. We were good friends in elementary school, and not so close in high school. We still got along well enough, and I remember sitting next to her in Grade 11 math, but we didn’t hang out with the same people, and we didn’t stay in touch after graduation.
Yet despite the distance between us, I’m not unaffected by the post announcing her mother’s death.
“Is something wrong?”
I jerk my head up, remembering where I am. I’m usually very much aware of my surroundings; I wouldn’t normally be startled by Evan sitting down next to me. But I was recalling that day in Shoppers, all those years ago. The sleepovers in Gina’s basement.
“A friend from elementary school…her mom died.” For some reason, I hold my phone toward Evan, as if he needs to see the evidence that it’s true.
He wraps me in his arms. He must assume that I’m sad for someone who was once close to me, and that hearing about the loss of a mother is complicated for me.
But it’s Gina’s mom, so there’s more to it.
“When I was in grade seven,” I begin, “my relationship with my father went downhill. Well, it started earlier, actually. Maybe grade six…” I’m not terribly articulate right now, but that’s okay. It’s just Evan.
Except “just” seems like a silly word. I don’t mean that he’s inconsequential; no, I mean that I don’t need to turn myself “on” around him. I’ve developed a new level of comfort with him, one I don’t have around anyone else.
“Anyway,” I say, “my dad pulled away when I started going through puberty. The changes made him even more uncomfortable than they made me. The summer before grade seven, the older sister of another friend was giving away some old clothes. When she asked if I wanted any, I took a black tube top. I didn’t think at all about how it would look on me; I just thought it would be comfortable to wear in our hot house. The a/c was broken and my dad hadn’t called the repair guy. But when I came downstairs wearing that shirt, he flipped out. I assured him that I had no plans to wear it outside, but he made me throw it out. Anyway.” Yeah, I’m really not very articulate right now. “When I got my period near the end of grade seven, he drove me to Shoppers, gave me twenty dollars, and told me to get what I needed.”
“He didn’t come in with you?”
“No, he waited in the parking lot. And I was twelve, I had no fucking clue. I mean, I’d had sex ed, and I knew in theory what I needed, but there were so many options. I also felt like it was something your mother was supposed to help with. Or failing that, an older sister or aunt. I knew my dad didn’t really know, but he could have at least been there with me. I felt so alone.” I’d stuffed toilet paper in my underwear, and I was miserable. “I started bawling my eyes out in the feminine hygiene section, and that’s when Gina’s mom found me.”
I’ve actually never told this story to anyone before, and it doesn’t feel weird that I’m telling it to Evan, even if I can’t look at his face as I continue.
It was obvious to Gina’s mom what was happening, and she knew my mother was gone. I clearly remember she had a package of toilet paper in one hand and some soap in the other. I’m sure she had better things to do than help me, but she stood there for fifteen minutes, calmly explaining all the different products. She wasn’t appalled by my changing body or upset that I was causing a scene. She also told me to ask my dad for any painkillers if I needed them. When I questioned why I’d need painkillers, she discovered that no one had ever mentioned the possibility of cramps to me. She went to another aisle and picked out a hot water bottle.
“Twenty minutes later,” I say, “when I had everything I needed and wasn’t quite so overwhelmed, I begged her not to say anything to Gina. Some girls might have felt comfortable with their friends knowing about such things, but not me. I was thankful, but I wanted this to be something that no one else ever knew about. She promised not to tell, and she gave me her cell number in case I had any other questions.”
And I did. One other time, many months later, I had questions about bras, and she was very helpful. But when I saw her at Gina’s, she never mentioned it, which I appreciated.
It was also reassuring that she clearly didn’t approve of my father’s actions. I felt like I had to make excuses for him because he was a man, but from her reaction, even if she didn’t say much about it, I could tell she had higher expectations.
“Anyway,” I say, yet again, then drain my cold coffee, “she was a mother to me when I needed it. Few people ever did something like that for me.” I sob on the last word and realize I’m crying, just as I was crying that day in the drugstore.
Evan moves his chair closer to mine.
“I haven’t seen Gina in fifteen years, but I could send her an email.” I don’t know if she still checks the email address I have for her, but if it doesn’t work, I can DM her. “It wouldn’t be weird if I told her a version of that story, would it? The rare times it happens, I appreciate when people have memories of my mother to share.”
I know Evan understands that I will relate this story in a much different way than I told it to him. It won’t include my complicated relationship with my father. And yes, Gina has decades of memories with her mother, whereas I had much less time with my own mom. But I still think it would be nice to add more than a generic expression of condolences.
“I don’t know what it’s like to lose a parent,” he says, “but I think that would be fine. You know your friend better than I do, though, even if you haven’t seen her in years.”
“Will you read it for me later?”
He nods, and we sit in silence for a while as kids shriek in the distance.
“I often wonder what my dad was like with Peyton when she went through puberty,” I say. “I’m not around enough to know if it changed their relationship. If Peyton didn’t have a mother, I would have, um, offered my help. But she does, so I didn’t say anything. It’s not like we’re close.” I study my empty mug. “I sent the wedding photo link to my dad, and he finally responded yesterday. He said they were pretty and he’s sorry he couldn’t be there.”
And that was it.
Well, he asked for my new address, too. Maybe he intends me to send me an impersonal card—that’s all I can hope for.
I wipe my eyes with my hand, and Evan goes inside and comes back with a box of tissues. I murmur my thanks.
Why am I talking so much today? Why am I so emotional about this?
Once again, I think back to my preteen years. When I shed a few tears, it freaked my father out. I learned not to express myself around him. But Evan is fine with it. I can let down my guard around him.
I’ve lived with people as an adult before, but just roommates when I was in university. It’s different from living with someone now, someone who’s building a life with me. I feel like I made a really good choice, even if our marriage might not be “conventional.”
This was another thing I struggled with as I grew up. It slowly became apparent that I didn’t think about boys the way many girls did. I occasionally had minor crushes, but something about it felt different, and I didn’t have the words to explain it.
Everything with sex and relationships has always been very fraught for me. For multiple reasons, yet somehow, I’m sobbing quietly in the backyard while my husband holds my hand, and it’s all okay.
Except it’s not. Gina’s mother is dead. She couldn’t have been all that old—under sixty-five, I’m guessing? Cancer, like my mom.
I feel all tangled up; I don’t like being overwhelmed by my emotions. But Evan is here, and his touch grounds me. It’s always been comfortable to talk to him, but before we got married, I know I wouldn’t have shared all this.
I look up at him and before I know what I’m doing, I trace his jawline with my finger, while my other hand is still gripped in his. The first time I looked at his face this closely was two days ago, when I did his makeup. I feel like I never saw it, not really, until recently. I study the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the freckle near his temple.
But this sort of touch is different from holding hands or cuddling. Worried I might have overstepped, I pull back, though we continue to sit in the backyard for a long time.
That afternoon, I sit cross-legged on my bed and draft an email to Gina on my laptop. I’ve written a grand total of one sentence when I start to doubt myself. Maybe her mom was one of those people who could be generous outside her home, but with her own family, it was a different matter, and my email will cause more hurt…
I don’t think so, but it’s been well over a decade since I talked to Gina.
The thing about death is that so many people are afraid of saying the wrong thing, and they end up saying nothing at all.
I write a couple of paragraphs, expressing my condolences and briefly describing my memories of her mother. I’m debating what to put in the subject line when Evan knocks on my door, as if he knows I’m almost finished.
“Hey.” He gestures to my laptop. “Are you ready for me to read it?”
I shift over on the bed, making space for him to sit beside me. I’m a bit embarrassed by the number of tabs open in my browser—it’s not like me—but I quickly shove down that feeling. It’s not as if my husband is seeing me naked.
And oh my God, why am I thinking about that? It’s completely inappropriate.
Evan skims what I’ve written. “You’re missing a word here.” He points to the screen.
“Right. Thank you.” I’d read it over and over, but sometimes when you do that, you can’t see it clearly anymore; you need a new perspective. “Is it okay otherwise?”
“Yeah. It’s good.”
I add a subject and send it to the email address that I used for talking to Gina on MSN Messenger, back when we were in high school. Then I close the laptop and put it aside. I lie down on my bed, and Evan hesitates before lying down next to me, his arm loosely slung over my waist. It’s similar to cuddling on the couch, which we often do when we watch TV, but something about being in bed makes it seem a little different.
I feel a prickle of guilt. Evan should have more; he should have love.
Instead, he has me.