Heartache and Other Natural Shocks (18 page)

“No,” I answer. He waits for me to elaborate, but I don’t.

Mom’s eyes grow angry—she knows what I’m doing—but
she forces out polite conversation. She says, “Les came over to help pass out the candy.” I look at the two wine glasses and the empty wine bottle on the coffee table.

Dr. Katzenberg says, “You should’ve seen some of those trick-or-treaters.”

“So cute,” my mother says.

“That little bumblebee …” Dr. Katzenberg smiles at my mother. She smiles back. I want to throw up. Do they think I’m an idiot? Kids stop coming to the door by nine o’clock, so why the hell is he still hanging around?

I want to say something clever and cynical, but I can’t think of anything. I just stare at them until Dr. Katzenberg says that it’s getting late and he’d better go. In my bedroom, from behind Karen McDuff’s ruffled pink curtains, I watch his Cadillac purr down the street. Seconds later, my mother blasts into my bedroom.

“How dare you be so rude,” she hisses.

“What?” I say, pretending I don’t know what she’s talking about.

“I expect you to be polite,” she says. “Would it hurt you to make a little conversation?”

“He wasn’t here to see me,” I say.

She grits her teeth. “Dr. Katzenberg is my boss, and my
friend
. And I want you to treat him with respect.”

I look her straight in the eye. “Yeah, well, maybe you should introduce your
friend
to your husband sometime.”

That’s when she slaps me across the face. Hard enough to make my head snap sideways. I’m shocked, and so is she. Her lips tremble. My cheek stings, but I don’t care. I hate her. Either she’s flirting with the idea of having an affair or she’s already having one. Either way, it’s wrong. She swallows hard and whips out of my room.

I pick up a pen and write to Mollie. My hand is shaking. I tell her about Dr. Katzenberg and ask for advice. What should I do? Should I phone my dad? Should I tell him what I know? And what would he do if he found out? Maybe he’d move to Toronto to fight for her and save his marriage. Or maybe he’d be so hurt that he’d stay in Montreal and they’d get divorced.

When I write down the word
divorced
, my heart cramps up and tears drip onto the page. What a bleak, horrible, cruel word. A word like a scorched field. People in my family do
not
get divorced. And, yes, it’s okay when you’re young and single to “love the one you’re with,” like Stephen Stills says in that song, but
not
when you’re married! That is
not
cool! And my mother has no right to trash her marriage because of the move to Toronto, or the
FLQ
, or whatever other excuse she has. They’ve been married for eighteen years. Marriage is supposed to be forever. Is she thinking about Bobby and me when she sips wine with Dr. Katzenberg?

All week, I don’t speak to her. Friday evening, Dad calls. Mom is out with Dr. Katzenberg again. When Dad asks to
talk to her, I think,
Why should I cover for her?
So I tell him, “Mom’s having dinner with Dr. Katzenberg, that doctor she works for. I don’t know what time she’ll be back.”

Talk about a big hint! I expect him to quiz me, but he doesn’t. He says, “Okay, poopsie, tell her I called.”

“But, Dad—” I hesitate. What should I say? “Did you know Dr. Katzenberg is a widower?”

“Yeah,” he says. “That’s a real shame. He sounds like a nice guy.” He sends me a kiss across the telephone wires. I hang up. Poor Dad. He doesn’t have a clue. I guess it’s just beyond his imagination to even suspect that the woman he loves could cheat on him.

“I’m Losing You”

On Monday, I catch up with Ian in the lunchroom. I sit down opposite him and fold my arms across my chest. “Did you get my message?” I ask coolly.

“Yeah, I told you, I don’t like it when you call me at home,” he says.

“Well, maybe if you had bothered to call
me
, I wouldn’t have to call
you
,” I say.

Ian looks at me like I’m getting on his nerves, but I’m the one who’s mad here. I’m the one who was grounded all weekend, while he was out partying with
my
friends. I unwrap my sandwich. “My dad’s the world’s biggest jerk,” I mutter.

“Your dad doesn’t even come close to winning that prize.”

“I bet your dad doesn’t ground you,” I say.

“No,” Ian says quietly. “He doesn’t do that.”

I look up, waiting for Ian to explain, but when it comes to his family, he makes like a clam. “So what are we going to do?” I ask.

“About what?”

“About us.” Ian shrugs. “Look, Papa and I are barely
speaking. And he’s not exactly your biggest fan. So, maybe we can hang out at your place for a while.”

“No,” Ian says.

“Why not? Come on. I know you have family issues, but—”

“You don’t know anything,” Ian says, cutting me off.

“Then explain it to me,” I say, annoyed. “Because this whole off-limits thing is really bugging me.”

Ian shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “I don’t get along with my parents, okay?”

I roll my eyes. “So, everybody hates their parents.”

“No, Carla, not like that. I don’t have anything to do with them. It’s like we’re guests at the same hotel. I don’t talk to them. I don’t take anything from them.”

“Yeah, right,” I scoff. “What about your motorcycle?”

“A gift from my grandfather.”

“He must be loaded.”

“No, my father’s loaded,” Ian says sharply. “My grandfather gave me the bike ’cause he knew I’d like it. My father doesn’t do that. He gives people things
he
likes.”

“Like what?” I ask. Ian turns away. He’s getting steamed, but he can’t always shut me out like this. “Ian!” I say.

He jerks his head back. “What? You want to know what he’s like? Is that really so important to you?”

“Yeah, as a matter of fact, it is.”

Ian frowns. “Fine,” he says. “I’ll tell you what kind of asshole he is.” And suddenly words are flying out of his
mouth like gravel spitting out from under the tires of a truck. “He’s the kind of guy who buys his wife a pearl necklace so she’ll wear it to the company party, ’cause he likes to show her off. Or he’ll give her a Picasso print for her birthday, not ’cause she likes modern art—’cause neither of them knows fuck-all about art—but because it’s a good investment. With him, it’s all about owning things or owning people.” He glowers at me. “You know what he gave me for my eighteenth birthday? A suit. A black suit. An expensive, tailor-made black suit. Like I’m ever going to wear a fucking black suit.”

“Well, maybe you’ll wear it to a family wedding,” I say, trying to lighten things up.

“Or maybe I’ll wear it to his funeral,” Ian says.

I don’t reply. I let it drop. Because now I feel like I’m walking through a minefield, and if I say even one wrong word, this whole place is going to explode.

Ian pushes his half-eaten sandwich away. “I’m going for a smoke.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“Forget it,” he says, getting to his feet. “Let’s just chill.”

Chill? “Wait,” I say, “we’re not finished yet.”

“Yeah, we are,” he says, and he walks away. I ditch my lunch and chase him into the hall. People stare. I feel a lump in my throat. I don’t get it. Is he breaking up with me? I catch up to him at the doors of the smoking area. I grab his arm.

“Will you back off?” he says. He flings open the door and I follow him out.

“Why do you always do this?” I yell.

“What?”

“Act like you get to make all the rules. We’re two people. We’re going out. This isn’t always just about you.”

But Ian isn’t listening anymore. He’s sprinting to the parking lot. And I’m left standing outside in the cold as his bike blasts off down the road.

“A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall”

Most people lead quiet private lives, but Carla and Ian are larger than life. They play out their scenes on center stage, in public, like a Greek tragedy. As soon as Geoff and I walk into the drama studio, I can tell that today is going to be one of those days. The air crackles. Carla and Ian are sitting in their usual seats, but they’re both twisted away from each other, and anger rolls off their bodies in waves.

Geoff raises an eyebrow and whispers, “A stormy day in paradise?”

“Duck and cover,” I say, sinking into my seat.

Geoff and I take out our copies of
Hamlet
. Mr. Gabor has been assigning debate topics about
Hamlet
for class discussion, like
Is the ghost real? Does Hamlet believe in free will?
We’re supposed to find quotes from the text to back up our opinions. Today, the topic is
Is Hamlet crazy?
Mr. Gabor asks for someone to lead off the discussion. Carla’s hand shoots up. She likes debates. If there’s one thing she’s good at, it’s arguing. Mr. Gabor nods at her. “Yes, Ms. Cabrielli. Do you think Hamlet is crazy?”

Carla says, “Well, for starters, anyone who decides to kill a person based on the advice of a ghost is obviously
not
in his right mind.”

Geoff says, “Hamlet’s friends saw the ghost too, which means that the ghost is real. And if the ghost is real, Hamlet isn’t crazy.”

“Maybe they’re all hallucinating,” Jason says. “Maybe the royal chef dropped some acid into the royal soup and they’re tripping out, like … whoa, man, I think I see a ghost. And wow, he looks just like the king. Far out!”

The class laughs.

“I still think the ghost is real,” Geoff says.

“Do you believe in ghosts, Geoffy?” Carla jeers.

Suddenly everyone is arguing about whether or not they believe in ghosts. Sherrie Cumberland says that her aunt stayed in a hotel in Manchester where doors slammed and furniture shifted, and her aunt saw a strange greenish light.

Benjamin, our class nerd, says, “There is a scientific explanation for every paranormal phenomenon, and only fools believe in the occult.”

Mr. Gabor waves his hands in the air and says, “People, please, the topic is sanity. Is Hamlet insane or not?”

“He’s
pretending
to be crazy,” Geoff says, flipping through the play for a quote. “Hamlet tells his friends that he’s going ‘to
put an antic disposition on
,’ which means he’s playacting. It’s part of his scheme to find out if Claudius murdered his father.”

“Yeah, well, he may
say
it’s an act, but the truth is, he’s clinically depressed and suicidal,” Carla argues.

“Quote, please,” Mr. Gabor says.

Carla scrambles through her text and reads from one of Hamlet’s soliloquies:
“ ‘O, that this too, too sullied flesh would melt, / Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew,’
which is another way of saying
I wish I were dead,”
Carla says.

“That sounds pretty depressed to me,” Sherrie says.

“He’s strung out,” Jason says.

“The prince needs a Valium,” Jeremy says.

“He has a good reason to be strung out,” I say, coming to Hamlet’s defense. “Hamlet is having a normal reaction for someone whose father was murdered and whose mother married his evil uncle less than two months after the funeral. Wouldn’t you be depressed?”

“I’d be pissed off, but I wouldn’t want to kill myself,” Carla sneers.

“He’s not planning to kill himself,” I say.

“He is so! He says it right here in the ‘To
be or not to be’
speech.” She opens her book and reads

Carla smirks. “He is definitely talking about offing himself.”

Benjamin raises a finger in the air. “Isn’t it true that according to Canadian law, if you seriously contemplate suicide, you are considered a danger to yourself and are therefore certifiably insane?”

“Thinking about suicide isn’t the same as doing it,” I insist. “Lots of people think about it.”

“No, they don’t!” Carla scoffs.

“Excuse me, but how would you know?” I say hotly. Carla’s eyes flash open. I can tell she’s shocked that I’m taking her on, but what does she know about suffering anyway? What horrible thing ever happened to her? “Hamlet is going through a crisis,” I say, “so why wouldn’t he have desperate thoughts. But it doesn’t mean he’s going to kill himself. He’s just thinking about death, and war, and the way people are so cruel to each other, and the total lack of morality in the world. He’s wondering if there’s any point to it all.”