Heartache and Other Natural Shocks (17 page)

“Did Ian show up?” I ask.

“Yeah, but he didn’t wear a costume,” Deb says.

Figures. “Did you talk to him?”

“Not really.”

“Did he dance with anyone?”

“No, but everyone else danced up a storm.”

“Did he look at Sherrie Cumberland’s boobs?”

Deb rolls her eyes. “Who wouldn’t?”

“Did he talk about me?”

Debbie yawns. “He spent most of the evening smoking dope with Jim Malone, who wasn’t even invited to the party but crashed anyway.”

“But did he say anything about me?” I ask.

Deb sighs. “I said, ‘Too bad about Carla being grounded,’ and he said, ‘Yeah.’ ”

“That’s it?” I shout.

Deb covers her head with her pillow and says, “Carla, stop!”

I go home and wait all day for Ian to phone, but he doesn’t. When I can’t stand it anymore, I call him. His mom says he’s out. I leave a message asking if she’d please tell him to call me as soon as he gets home. I wait and wait, but the call never comes. By the time I go to bed, I’m gnashing my teeth. I mean, don’t you think that if your girlfriend got grounded because her father caught you feeling her up, you might want to phone and see how she’s doing? Especially if she missed a party. A party she set up with you in mind! Wouldn’t that be the nice thing to do? But no, Ian has no manners. It’s always me chasing him, and I’m getting mighty tired of that.

“Went to See the Gypsy”

“I think it’s time I met your mother,” Geoff says just before Halloween.

“Why?” I ask. “She’s not interesting like your mother. You’re not missing anything.”

Geoff shakes his head. “Maybe you don’t really have a mother,” he says. “Maybe you and poor little Bobby are orphans living off a family trust, pretending that your mother is still alive so Social Services doesn’t put you up for adoption.” I sigh. “Seriously,” Geoff says. “It’s almost like you don’t want me to meet her.”

He’s right; I don’t. I don’t want her to know that I’ve made friends with a witty, charming, funny guy. If my mom sees that, she’ll think I’m “adjusting,” and I want her to know how traumatized I am. I explain this to Geoff, but he just laughs, so Friday after school, I finally relent. Geoff Jones meets Natalie Epstein, and wouldn’t you know, they hit it off like a house on fire. Mom is delighted to meet my new friend, and Geoff gushes over Mom like she’s a movie star. He says, “Jules, you never told me your mother looks exactly like Kim Novak!”

“Maybe that’s ’cause I don’t know who Kim Novak is,” I say flatly.

Mom laughs. “I’m not nearly that pretty.”

“But you are,” Geoff says. “You have her blonde hair and almond-shaped eyes.”

“Who’s Kim Novak?” Bobby asks.

“A famous actress,” Mom says.

“Her real name was Marilyn Novak,” Geoff explains, “but Columbia made her change it to Kim because there already was a Marilyn—Monroe. Anyway, Kim made lots of movies and dated lots of men: Sammy Davis Jr., Frank Sinatra, Prince Aly Khan and Count Mario Bandini, Italy’s tomato mogul.”

I groan. Geoff is showing off, and Mom is lapping it up. She invites Geoff to stay for dinner. Over lamb chops, they talk about Kim Novak’s performance in Hitchcock’s
Vertigo
. I don’t make any attempt to join in—not that I could. By the time dessert is served, they’re practically best friends. So, when Geoff asks Mom if it would be all right if I spent Halloween with him and Clarissa, Mom is only too happy to oblige.

Sunday night, I’m expecting to hand out Halloween candies at Geoff’s, but when I arrive at his apartment, the door is flung open by a man wearing a tuxedo and a black cape. He has thick eyebrows, slicked-back hair and fangs. “Velcome,” he says in a Transylvanian accent.

“Ah, Count Dracula,” I say.

Geoff bows politely and looks hungrily at my neck. “So glad you could come to my hummmble abode. But vhere is your costume?”

“Do I need one?” I ask.

Geoff calls out, “Mother, darlink, I think ve have a prawblem.”

Clarissa appears in a white diaphanous gown that clings to her body. She wears gold serpent bands around her upper arms and head. Her green eyes are accented with eyeliner, like kohl, so that you can’t help but think she’s Cleopatra reincarnated.

“Cleopatra?” I ask.

“The goddess Isis,” she says, angling her body sideways as if posing for an Egyptian frieze. “Didn’t Geoff tell you we’re going out?” I shake my head. “Never mind, I’m sure I have something wonderful for you in my closet.”

Geoff and Clarissa leap to the challenge of finding me the perfect costume. Clarissa pulls out a little black dress with a scoop neck and says, “Audrey Hepburn?” I try it on in the bathroom. It’s chic and fabulous. My mother would say it’s way too sophisticated for me, but when I step back into the bedroom, Geoff and Clarissa applaud.

“She just needs gloaves,” says Count Dracula.

“And a cigarette holder,” says Isis.

“Like
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
,” says the count. “You
have seen Breakfast at Tiffany’s
, I hope.”

“No, but I saw Audrey Hepburn in
My Fair Lady
,” I say proudly.

“Vell, it’s the
Tiffany
Hepburn ve’re going for here.” Geoff arches an eyebrow. “Did you know her mother vas a Dutch baroness?”

Clarissa pins up my hair, while
Vogue
fashion photographer Geoff Jones snaps pictures of the entire makeover process, saying things like, “Chin up, darling, and a touch to the left.”

Clarissa fills me in on the evening’s plan. “We’re going to see a psychic named Henry,” she says. “He reads palms, and even the police use him. Last month, when a girl in Richmond Hill disappeared, Henry told the police to look in a watery ditch near power lines, and that’s exactly where they found her body.” Creepy!

At the stroke of seven, we sweep out of the apartment looking like characters in a Fellini film. Geoff drives Baby Blue downtown to a rickety house on Queen Street West, where Henry works with three other psychics. We walk up the creaky plank stairs and enter a hallway that smells of mildew and patchouli oil. A woman with long gray hair and a pointy chin directs us into a waiting room full of lumpy couches, Indian cotton throws and mirrored pillows.

“Ooh … the Wicked Witch of the West,” Geoff whispers in my ear. “I wouldn’t let her read my fortune.”

Clarissa says, “Don’t worry; Henry’s a doll. Do you know, two weeks before Keith walked out, Henry told me that my
marriage was a forked road. But I guess you didn’t have to be clairvoyant to see that coming.” Clarissa laughs, and then turns to me. “Anyway, I’ve met someone new.”

“Who?” I ask. It never occurred to me that Clarissa might be dating.

“A theater director,” she says. “Michael van Meers. I met him through some acting friends. He’s very interested in promoting new Canadian playwrights.”

“He sounds great,” I say.

“If you like guys with John Lennon glasses and a ponytail,” Geoff mumbles.

“You barely met him,” Clarissa chides.

The witchy lady calls Clarissa’s name. Clarissa gives Geoff a long cool stare, and then rises like a goddess from her throne and slowly ascends the stairs. Geoff and I are left alone in the gloomy room.

“So, why don’t you like Michael van Meers?” I ask Geoff.

Geoff shrugs. “I don’t know. He’s okay. Not nearly as good-looking as my dad, though.” He fiddles with a candle on the coffee table.

“How old were you when your father left?” I ask.

“Four.”

“Do you remember anything?”

Geoff wraps his Dracula cloak around his body. “I remember little bits of things, like riding in my dad’s convertible. Or this time in my parents’ bedroom, when I was hiding in the
nook between the dresser and the wall because the two of them were fighting and I didn’t want to hear it.” Geoff passes his finger back and forth through the flame. In his black cape, with his melancholy expression, he looks just like Hamlet. I can picture him wandering through the chilly, torch-lit passages of Elsinore Castle, casting long, flickering shadows on the stone walls and muttering,
“All is not well. / I doubt some foul play. Would the night were come! / Till then, sit still, my soul.”

“Do you ever see your dad?” I ask.

Geoff pokes his finger into the hot wax. “I tried once when I was in grade five. We were doing pen pals at school, and I got the bright idea that I could be pen pals with my dad. So I got his address off one of his checks to Clarissa, and I wrote him a letter with all the usual pen pal stuff: age, favorite subjects, hobbies, that kind of thing. At the end of the letter, I said that I’d like to see him again, and I included a black-and-white photo-booth shot of me so he’d recognize me when we finally met. I sent it off without telling Clarissa. Two weeks later, I got a reply. He thanked me for writing, but said he didn’t think we should meet because he’d remarried and he had a new life now. He wished me good luck in school. And I never heard from him again.”

I sit there, stunned. “How could he do that?” I ask. Geoff doesn’t look up. I think about my own dad, his goofy impressions of Ed Sullivan and his terrible off-key singing. I remember how he used to take Bobby and me tobogganing at Beaver
Lake in the winter and on the roller coaster at Belmont Park in the summer, and how, at the lake, he’d always challenge us to swimming races and cheat, grabbing our legs and pulling us backward through the water till we sputtered with laughter and screamed, “Daddy, stop it!” I miss him.

Clarissa waltzes back into the room and announces, “Henry foresees a significant change in my life.” She sinks into an overstuffed armchair, and a small cloud of dust rises up from the cushion. “He said, the man I’m seeing could be ‘the one’!”

“The one for what?” Geoff asks.

“The one to spend my life with, of course.”

“And you believe him?” Geoff asks icily. Clarissa and Geoff lock eyes.

“Next,” the witchy lady calls out.

“You go,” I say to Geoff.

“I don’t want to,” Geoff mutters.

I jump up. “All right then, I’ll go. Let’s see what Henry has to say about me.” I try to sound light and breezy, but my words are swallowed up into the gloom.

Henry isn’t what you’d expect from a psychic. He’s a very ordinary-looking, middle-aged man in an oatmeal-colored sweater. We exchange hellos. I sit opposite him and he unfurls my palm, tilting it under the lamplight. He doesn’t bother looking at my face; maybe for him, my hand tells the entire story. I wonder if he recognizes people by their palms the way
dentists like my uncle Mort recognize people by their teeth:
Ah, yes, the lady with the large incisors …

Henry starts off with a few general observations. He tells me that I’m smart, disciplined and stubborn—things that could apply to almost anyone. I don’t say anything because I’m skeptical about this whole psychic business. I’m waiting to see if he can come up with something no one else knows.

Henry glances at me. His eyes are milky blue. He says, “This is a time of transition for you. Family issues. Change. Have you just moved to Toronto?”

“Yes,” I say, surprised.

Henry stares back at my palm. He traces the web of intersecting lines. “Things are not what they appear to be,” he says. “A man you love is going to disappoint you. But it’s not about you. Remember that.” Is he talking about Ian? What does this mean? He says, “Each of us is tested in life. Most people face their battles when they’re older. In your case, the test is now.”

Henry’s voice is low and soothing, but I don’t like what he’s telling me. How will I be tested? I want a road map, not riddles. “I don’t understand,” I say. “What am I supposed to do?”

Henry smiles and pats my hand. “You’re a warrior, my dear. Your power is always there for you to claim. But you won’t win by the sword.” A shiver runs through me. I wait for him to explain, but Henry just sits back in his chair. The session is done.

“Thanks,” I say, feeling confused. “I’ll send up my friend now.”

“Your friend won’t be coming,” Henry says.

I head downstairs. Geoff and Clarissa are already at the door. How did Henry know? Geoff has the car keys in his hand, and he averts his eyes as he shoves the door open. Outside, the wind snaps at his cape. Baby Blue’s windshield is etched with frost, and Geoff scrapes it off. Clarissa gets in the front seat and slams the door. Suddenly I feel like Cinderella at midnight, when all the magic disappears. Our beautiful clothes have turned to flimsy rags, and there’s a blister on the back of my foot from walking in Clarissa’s heels. On the drive home, no one speaks. I glance at Geoff’s somber profile. This is a face I don’t recognize. Sometimes, even between friends, there are dark corners where no one is welcome.

When they drop me off at my house, I notice a blue Cadillac in the driveway. In the living room, I find my mother and Dr. Katzenberg sitting on the couch. It’s 10:05 on a Sunday night. What is he doing in our house? They stare at me in my Audrey Hepburn dress. Mom asks, “Whose clothes are you wearing?” I can tell she doesn’t like the look.

“Geoff’s mom’s,” I say.

“Have you been to a costume party?” Dr. Katzenberg asks in a hearty voice that I find false and offensive.