Born That Way (3 page)

The kitchen door is ajar, and I can see through the louvers if I find the right sight line. I can see Dad's feet. He's still wearing his good shoes. They are my favourites with rich red-brown leather that shines even in the shadow under the kitchen table. There are little leather tassels on the top of each shoe. I would love to have shoes like this, but Dad says they are extremely expensive so I have to wait until I am a grownup with a job and money of my own. I told him that I'm old enough to have a part-time job but he snorted like he didn't believe me, then said there was no reason for me to be in such a hurry.

“Apparently riding offers ways of fulfilling and working through wishes and fears that are displaced from parents,” says Mom.

“How do they figure that?” says Dad. His feet slide back under his chair then perch on their toes. Ballerina feet.

Mom is wearing her lambskin slippers which are a million years old, all saggy and thin-soled, but I know she loves them—she'll never throw them out or replace them. She slides them out in front of her and crosses her legs at the ankles.

“Well, Freud identified a number of developmental stages—”

“Oh, not this again.”

Mom starts tapping her toes together. “All right then, I can skip all that, but to put it on a practical level, perhaps she's afraid we're going to divorce.”

Divorce? Why would they divorce? Have I missed something? Fortunately my dad says, “Where would she get that idea?” The tassels on his shoes are vibrating.

“I run into this issue all the time at work—lots of kids worry that their parents are going to break up.”

Sure, but not my parents.

Dad grunts. He doesn't seem to buy this either.

“And I know you have no interest in the theoretical background, but it's also possible that riding is an early adolescent phallic activity.”

I make a mental note to look up “fallick” in my dictionary. It doesn't sound like a bad thing, but then I hear Dad say, “Oh give me a break.”

“And that it's a substitute for conscious masturbation.”

Masturbation I don't have to look up. That was the topic of one of the more embarrassing talks I've had with Mom, so it's burned into my memory forever.

“She's thirteen,” says Dad.

“Fourteen,” Mom corrects him, thank goodness. “She can't stay your little baby girl forever.”

Dad's feet go flat on the floor. “Why would I . . . you're the one who—”

“And while we're talking about this I should also warn you that, according to the article, there's a correlation between women's interest in horses and idealized relationships with unavailable fathers. Which is why I thought you taking her to gymnastics would be a good idea.”

“Gymnastics is not going to work,” says Dad. “All she wants to do is hang from the bars and stretch.”

“See?” says Mom. “She's obsessed with becoming taller and growing up. She wants to be an adult. It's so Jungian. She wants to marry you.”

“Evelyn,” says Dad, which is not a good sign. Usually he calls her Evie, or when he's kidding around he says it more like “E.V.” which he says stands for “extra voluble”. I keep meaning to look this up but haven't done it yet.

“It's classic Electra Complex,” says Mom.

“Oh right,” says Dad. “So she's going to murder you and marry me, is that how you see it? Hey—isn't this like one of those Shakespeare plays?”

Murder my mother? Marry my father? Is this all code for something else? Because straight out it makes no sense to me at all.

“Well
Hamlet
of course, though the genders are reversed, but it's the same idea,” says Mom.

My dad's heels are bouncing. “Have you ever considered, Evelyn, that perhaps your relationship with Sylvie could use some work?”

Oh, no, Dad. Don't say that. She's trying too hard already.

“Work?” says Mom. She can't believe it either.

“Well, not exactly work,” says Dad. “You're already too serious with her. You're always psychoanalyzing her—”

“I do no such thing.”

“Ever since you went back to school and started this new job—”

“That is so unfair.”

“Couldn't you just play with her?”

“Tony, she is much too old for that.”

“Well then, female bonding maybe? That way she'd have second thoughts about bumping you off and marrying me.”

There's a long silence, then I hear Mom sniff. “Now you're being ironic,” she says.

“I am not.”

“Just once I'd like you to take my career seriously.”

Dad's heels bounce some more. “You need to lighten up, Evelyn. You need to leave work at work and stop applying all that psychological stuff to your family.”

“Well you certainly bring your work home.”

“Only to the extent that I use my financial skills to manage the family budget.”

“As I use my psychoanalytic skills to manage the family relationships.” Mom's slippers move out of my sight beneath her chair. There's a great long dark gap between her feet and Dad's feet.

“There's no comparison,” says Dad.

“There certainly is,” says Mom.

I hate it when they're like this. I feel sick inside, even though I know they always work it out. It's worse that they're arguing about me this time, and not the usual stuff like whether or not to trade in Mom's car on something newer, or what to say to Dad's brother next time he asks to borrow money.

“Listen,” says Dad, “I was only suggesting that you and Sylvie do some things together. I tried the gymnastics thing, now it's your turn.”

“Like what?”

“How should I know? Girl stuff. Go to a spa. Join a gym.”

A spa? This is getting ridiculous. I could clear it up by telling them that all I want to do is grow as tall as Grandpa's shoulder. I could stand up right now, walk into the kitchen and explain everything. But what would be the point? They won't believe me. And if they did believe me they'd disagree with the whole plan, call Grandpa, tell him not to interfere and I'd never ever own a horse.

“Aren't you afraid that a spa will be too expensive?” says Mom.

“Are you being ironic now? Because if you are I think that's completely not called for.”

“Oh Honey, of course not,” says Mom. “It's a good idea. Leave it with me. I'll think of something.” Her right foot has appeared out of the gloom and snaked its way over to Dad's shoes. She drops the slipper and slides her toes up under the cuff of his pant leg.

“Ready for bed?” says Dad.

“Mmm hmmm,” says Mom.

I take off for my room and shut my door. They always make up. They would never divorce.

I can't find “fallick” in the dictionary.

CHAPTER THREE

We are galloping along a beach and into the waves. I've never ridden a horse in the water before. I wonder if they can swim, especially if they are wearing metal shoes, though I don't know if my horse has shoes on or not. I grab the mane and bend to one side but the horse's feet are moving too fast going in and out of the water and I think hey, I'm riding, and I'm not falling off, and it's bareback, oh boy! And I have the most amazing thought: since I'm riding, I must be dreaming. I try to keep the thought kind of quiet so it doesn't wake me up. I pay attention to the dream, to the white mane of the horse, to the sound of the water splashing. And then I think, well, if it's a dream I'm not going to hurt myself, I'm not going to fall off, so I should have some fun! And we go farther into the water until I'm sure it's really deep and the horse must be swimming but we're going along smooth as silk. Suddenly there's another horse and rider beside us and I think too bad this is a dream, too bad this can't be reality and that's when I wake up.

I must grow taller.

It's Saturday. There's no wake-up alarm, and even though it's only eight o-clock Mom comes in and sits on the edge of my bed.

“Hey, Sugarplum,” she says.

“Morning,” I say. I'm still feeling sad about the dream just being a dream.

“I thought we should do something special together today,” says Mom.

“Oh yeah?”

She reaches over and I think she's going to straighten my bangs out of my eyes but instead I feel her lift a strand of hair from the top of my head and let it slide through her fingertips. “Do you ever think about putting in hi-lights? They'd make you look very grown-up.”

“Mom, I prefer it plain, and simple.” She knows this, we've had this discussion before, but I try not to sound impatient with her. I know she's had a lot on her mind.

“Your dad would really like it,” she says, which reminds me of their conversation I overheard last night. Now I see where this is going.

So I say, “Sure Mom, that sounds like fun.” My day is ruined.

I'm not even due for a haircut. I was at Magic Cuts only two weeks ago—this is where Dad always takes me, it's in the mall and they only charge $6 which he says is a sensible price to pay for a trim. Mom wants to take me to Madeleine, who is her own hairdresser. She works in a salon on Fifth Street. But when Mom phones after breakfast she's told that Madeleine is booked up for the day and no one else is available and I think I have a reprieve, but then the phone rings five minutes later and apparently Madeleine has agreed to fit me in at 11:15 because of Mom being such a special customer, so my day is ruined all over again, and I start to worry that maybe my life is ruined too. What will the kids at school say if I show up next week with a new image?

I try but I can't think of an escape, unless I can draw the line at a cut. Maybe Mom would be satisfied with that, a new style, something with spikes that I could comb out on the way to school. I focus on staying calm and don't say much as we drive to town. Mom says I must be very excited because I'm so quiet.

I have a moment of hope when Mom can't find a parking space in the lot behind the salon and she won't parallel park her car on Fifth Street because she says the spaces are all too small. It's ten minutes past eleven and I think we might miss the appointment when Mom finds a spot around the corner on Duncan Street, in the angle parking section. We climb out of the car and Mom makes me run down Fifth Street and we're at the salon right on time.

I've never been inside the place before. Mom always goes on her lunch break, or after work, if her roots need touching up. I've walked past a hundred times without being able to see anything because the window glass is so darkly tinted.

Hanging on the door is a black sign with gold letters which say “Appointments Always Required.” A bell on the top of the door tinkles as Mom pushes it open and I'm hit with a wave of warm air scented with chemicals that remind me of the embalming fluid I smelled at the science fair. I look back at Mom to make sure it's okay to go in because she's always concerned about air quality, but she doesn't seem to have noticed and she nudges me through the doorway. Right in front of us is the tallest reception desk I have ever seen in my life. It looks like the hull of a ship. From the top deck I hear a man's voice say, “Oh hello, Evelyn, how nice to see you,” but I can't see anyone until an alien creature leans out over the edge and peers down at me. He has a tattooed forehead, pierced nostril, pierced lip, and ears which are more metal than flesh. His hair is raven black and stands up in a plume over his head. At least I think it's a man. The voice sounded like a man's, but I'm not sure now because he's wearing eye-shadow and lipstick. “You must be Sylvia,” he says, and I add tongue-piercing to the list.

This is someone who needs a better hobby.

“Hi, Bernard,” says Mom, solving the gender mystery but creating another one because I can't understand why she would talk to him as though he was normal. She's always warning me about people like this and how the last thing she would want would be for me to hang around with any of the Goth kids at school because they're into black magic and spiritualism.

Bernard sashays out from around the edge of the desk and pats me gently on the head. “Come along, we can take you right down, follow me. Are you staying, Evelyn? Will you be wanting a coffee? That's black with no sugar?”

We follow Bernard obediently past a row of chairs filled with caped customers. I smell hairspray on top of everything else. My nose is stuffing up.

“Sylvia—that means Goddess of Nature, does it not?” says Bernard, which is news to me. He doesn't wait for a response, but continues walking and chattering like an exotic jungle bird until we arrive at an empty chair near the back of the room. He takes another long look at me then slides an armful of towels off a shelf and arranges them like a cushion on the chair before he swivels it around for me to sit in. “These chairs aren't very comfortable if you're not as well padded as some of the older ones,” he whispers in my ear. His eyes move to a large lady in the next chair and then back to me again. Bernard is nice.

Madeleine is nice too. I like her right away because she doesn't look like the other hairdressers—she looks more like she could use a good hairdresser, as though she doesn't care how she looks, as though she thinks other things are more important. She has snapshots of dogs and cats stuck all around the edges of her mirror. No horses, but she's obviously an animal person so I know I can relax. Maybe I can escape with a trim, maybe she'll see that I'm not the sort of person who needs to dye her hair and draw attention to herself.

She runs her fingers firmly across my scalp. “Lovely head of hair. Look at that shine. All you need is a better cut. You'd have more body and volume if we added some texture. Unless you prefer it simple like this? I could still leave it long enough so you could tie it back if you want to.”

I see Mom in the mirror behind me looking like she's about to answer for me. But before she can say anything Madeleine slides her hand up the back of my neck. “Oh my. Look at this.” She holds my hair to expose my neck. “Look how low your hairline goes here. Isn't this wonderful?” She drops my hair and fluffs it out. “It's like the mane of a lion.”

“How about the mane of a horse?” I ask her.

“Oh, Honey,” says Mom kind of sadly.

“Well sure,” says Madeleine. “I like horses better than lions any day. So how did you manage to get a horse's mane? Your mom doesn't have one.”

Mom pats her hair, then tucks it behind her ear. “Oh she was born that way. She always had a tremendous head of hair. We were thinking streaks or hi-lights today.”

I sink into my cushion of towels and close my eyes and try to accept my fate. I feel Madeleine's hand on my shoulder and she says, “This is going to take a while, Evelyn. I think Marci is free—why don't you see about treating yourself to a manicure?”

After Mom leaves, Madeleine offers me all sorts of colour choices; she says I can put in streaks of pink or white or purple, but I say no thanks. I tell Madeleine I want to look as natural as possible, and she says she completely understands. So she puts in some faint auburn hi-lights on top and then because she's so nice and enthusiastic, I let her cut my hair. She promises to make it a bit more stylish without being outrageous. She's blowing it dry when Mom comes back and makes a big fuss about how great I look and wasn't this a fun thing for the two of us to do together.

Back at home I go straight to the bathroom to check myself in the mirror. I use a wet brush to take out some of the volume and end up looking more or less like myself. Thank goodness the streaks aren't obvious and I'm thinking maybe no one at school will notice, but then at dinner Dad says my hair is great and I look like a twenty-year-old and I try to show him I'm happy about this but really I am experiencing a hopeless feeling, like I'm trapped in the wrong life. I try to do what I usually do when this happens and think of something in the future that I can look forward to and I can only come up with two things (other than growing to Grandpa's shoulder)—one is seeing Nickers, and the other is having more riding dreams, and actually the riding dreams are even better than seeing Nickers because at least I can't hurt myself, there's no falling off, all there is is fun.

So after we've cleared up from dinner I tell Mom and Dad I want to go to bed early and boy is that a mistake.

They take my pulse and my temperature. I get the “puberty is a difficult stage” talk again and something about hormones and do I have any abdominal cramps. They review everything I ate during the day, looking for possible allergic reactions.

“Maybe it's the hair dye?” I suggest.

“Well I suppose . . . ” says Dad.

“That would be a shame,” says Mom. “You look so pretty with hi-lights.”

“Oh well,” I say.

“Look, I rented a movie for us to watch together tonight,” says Dad.

It is too much to hope that it is
The Black Stallion
or
The Silver Stallion
or even
Pride and Prejudice
, all great horse movies, but even so I'm a little bit excited until Mom says, “We thought you might like to see the
Star Wars
series. We rented part one for tonight. There are some great archetypal characters I think you'll enjoy.”

“Plus the special effects are great. Well, considering when it was made,” says Dad.

I know there won't be any horses.

“I think I'll go to bed and read,” I say. “But thanks.”

I go to my room and climb into bed but I don't exactly read. I skim a few pages of the Greenhawk Equestrian Supplies catalogue but only because I'm hoping this will help me dream about horses. I tuck it back under the Archie comics and try to fall asleep. I try so hard that it backfires on me and I lie there with my eyes wide open watching the light from the streetlamp leak in around the edges of my curtains. My hair smells funny. Actually, it stinks.

Mom and Dad finish watching their movie and head off to bed.

And I lie there.