Heartache and Other Natural Shocks (29 page)

He says, “The dress is ugly.”

I smile, thinking I’ve won, but then I notice his face, which is darkening like a storm cloud.

“But it is not nearly as ugly as the way you treated that girl,” he growls. His voice rumbles like a rockslide. “There are no prima donnas in my show. You are a student, you are
not
a queen, and unless you apologize to Mary right now, you are not getting up on that stage.”

I feel my face turning red. I know he’s mad, but I think he’s bluffing. “I won’t,” I say.

Mr. Gabor turns and walks.

“No one can do my part,” I call out. “You can’t replace me a week before the show.”

Without turning, he says softly, “Oh, I’ll find someone.”

And
bam
—I know exactly who he means. Julia. He’ll ask Julia. It’s like she’s always there, lurking in the wings, trying to steal my boyfriend and now trying to steal my part. Well, forget that. I don’t care if I have to crawl on my hands and knees across a field of cut glass and grovel in front of that stupid sewing elf—there is no way Julia Epstein is ever going to get my part!

So, I do it. I walk back into the auditorium and I apologize to Mary. I say I’m sorry, but I don’t mean it. I just feel burned.

“Way Back Home”

Ironically, it’s Dr. Katzenberg who provides me with the perfect opportunity to sneak out of town. He invites Mom, Bobby and me to his cottage for the Easter long weekend at the beginning of April. No one expects me to actually go. I tell Mom that I’ll be busy helping Geoff with his fencing, and she believes me.
Hamlet
opens right after Easter. I buy us tickets for opening night, even though I won’t be here. It’s all part of the grand deception.

The only thing I feel bad about, other than missing Geoff in
Hamlet
, is leaving Bobby. The night before my escape, Bobby and I eat pizza in the kitchen. He thinks this is just another meal, but I know it’s our last one. He’s excited about the cottage. He talks about Dr. Katzenberg’s sauna, and his fishing boat, and how the fishing season doesn’t start till May. “What do the fish do in the winter?” Bobby asks.

“I don’t know. Hibernate?”

Bobby laughs. “They’re fish, not bears.” He picks the mushrooms off his pizza. He says, “This summer, I’m going to bring my rod to the cottage, and Dr. Katzenberg is going
to let me use his tackle box. We’re going to fish for smallmouth bass. And maybe Dad can come too.” Bobby gobbles his pizza, and we both leave the crusts. Afterward, we play Clue. I let him win. He gloats a lot. I really hope he doesn’t hate me when he finds out I’m gone.

The cottagers leave Thursday evening. Bobby waves good-bye from the car. I wait for thirty minutes, just to be safe, then I grab one of Bobby’s old hockey bags from the basement and pack up my stuff. I take only the essentials: clothes to see me through the winter, some jewelry and my favorite albums. I don’t plan to come back here, so the rest will have to be shipped. It’s liberating to pare down one’s life like this. After all, how much stuff does a person really need?

After I’m packed, I write a note to my mother. I ask her to respect my decision to live with Dad. I tell her that it’s best for everyone; Toronto was never my home.

At eleven-thirty, I’m wide awake. I decide that a little fresh air will do me good, one last stroll around the neighborhood. It’s funny how I have to make excuses for myself, because really, I know exactly where I’m going.

There’s a light on in the basement of Ian’s house. I sneak along the side path to the backyard. When I tap softly on the French doors, Ian steps out of his bedroom. He’s barefoot, in jeans and a T-shirt. He looks surprised to see me. “Rapunzel, Rapunzel,” he says, quietly sliding the door open.

“I just came to say good-bye.”

“Why good-bye?”

“I’m moving back to Montreal,” I tell him. “I’m going to live with my dad. I’m finally taking control of my life.”

Ian gives me a mocking smile. “So, you’re leaving your lonely tower,” he says.

“I’m going home, where I belong.”

Ian nods. He gets it because he doesn’t belong here either. “Good for you,” he says. There isn’t much more to say.

I look into his wolf eyes and glance at the tiny scar at the corner of his lips. I study the slope of his cheekbones and the cut of his jaw. I want to remember every part of him. I would like to tell him that he meant something to me, even if I didn’t mean the same thing to him. I think that can happen between people; it doesn’t always balance out.

“Well, I better go,” I whisper.

“Keep up the fencing,” he says. We both glance toward the sanctuary and smile. “Send me a postcard,” he says. “Maybe, one day, I’ll look you up.”

He won’t, and we both know it. So I kiss him on the lips, one last, soft, melting kiss, because that’s what I came for.

Geoff insists that I take the train rather than the bus to Montreal. “If you must leave, then go in style,” he says. “A train
is so much more romantic than a bus. I will drive you to Union Station. I’ll carry your bags and wear a brave smile, but inside, you’ll know my heart will be breaking.”

As promised, Geoff picks me up at six-forty-five Friday morning. It’s dark and cold, but by the time we get downtown, a lemony sun is peeking between the office towers. Geoff parks Baby Blue on Front Street and carries my bag into the station. I smile to myself, thinking that even now, on my last day, Geoff is my personal tour guide to Toronto, trying to show me the best this city has to offer.

Union Station really is impressive. Even with all the people hurrying through, it feels holy and calm, like a cathedral. Geoff points out the high vaulted ceiling and the huge arched windows at either end of the great hall. Soft beams of honeyed light spill down onto the floor. Tall stone columns mark the entrance to the departure area.

“See, isn’t this wonderful?” he whispers. “The grandeur. The scale.”

“You were right,” I say.

“No wonder Orson Welles loved train stations so much,” Geoff sighs. “It’s like the gods are watching us play out the entrances and exits of our lives.”

Our footsteps click across the granite floor as we approach the ticket booth. I ask for a one-way ticket on the Rapido to Montreal. Geoff leans against the counter and speaks in his gangster voice. “Yeah, mister, you heard the lady. A one-way
ticket outta here. She never wants to see this two-bit town again. It’s good-bye to bad rubbish.”

The uniformed man in the booth lifts a heavy eyelid, glances dolefully at Geoff, takes my money and slides my ticket across the counter.

We’re early, so Geoff and I find a seat on a bench. Geoff fidgets. He says, “Can I buy you something? Mints? Coffee?”

“I wish I smoked cigarettes,” I say.

“Yes, in an ivory cigarette holder,” Geoff says, “wearing cerise lipstick and a pillbox hat—you know the kind, with the little black veil—and a three-quarter-length wraparound coat. If only you had a hatbox and a trunk.” He frowns at my bag. “A hockey bag is so déclassé. If you had a trunk, we could call a porter. Would you like a porter? Wouldn’t that be fun?”

I shake my head. We people-watch and invent stories about their lives: a middle-aged couple having a clandestine affair, an old man going to his estranged brother’s funeral. Finally, we hear the
bing-bing-bong
tone and the announcement for the Rapido to Montreal. Geoff breaks into his Southern maid voice and says, “Ya’ll better hurry along, missy, or you’re gonna miss that train.”

I smile at Geoff. “I’ll be thinking about you on opening night. You’re going to be amazing.” We both get choked up and hug each other tightly. Then I pick up my hockey bag and walk between the towering columns to the blackened platform where the Rapido waits.

The train pulls out of the station, shuddering and heaving like a great iron beast. As we leave the city, I catch glimpses of Lake Ontario and clumpy, wet fields flattened by snow. Soon we’re swaying and rocking down the track. I stare out the window and rehearse what I’m going to say to Dad. I line up my arguments like toy soldiers. He’ll balk at first, and he’ll want to speak to Mom, but he won’t be able to reach her all weekend. And soon after that, he’s going to find out about her affair.

When he does find out, it’s going to be awful. But at least I’ll be there to help. And then the two of us can make a fresh start. In June, we’ll look for a smaller place—a duplex, or an apartment, like Geoff and Clarissa’s. We don’t even have to stay in T.M.R. We can live closer to downtown if he wants. We can shop together and share the cooking. I can bus to school and sign up for Eva von Gencsy’s jazz class again. The point is, we’ll have each other. Once he sees that, the rest will work out.

Five hours later, the train clunks and grinds into Montreal, past sooty factories and brick apartment blocks, where laundry hangs on clotheslines like limp, faded flags. Even before we jolt to a stop, I’m waiting at the door because I promised Geoff that I’d be the first to step onto the platform. “Like Cyd Charisse in
The Band Wagon
, when she strode off the train in her ultrasmart traveling suit where her tippet matched her muff.” I don’t even know what a tippet is, but I grin just remembering the way Geoff said it.

Outside, the afternoon sun is blinding. Cars speed past with license plates reading
La Belle Province
. Passersby chatter in French and English. People dart across the street, paying no attention at all to honking taxis and traffic signals because, unlike Toronto, this is a brazen city that walks, talks and plays whenever it feels like it.

I catch the number 65 bus, and we ramble past Mount Royal and swing left onto Queen Mary. At Victoria, I transfer to the 124, which takes me down the homestretch into the Town of Mount Royal. Finally, I get off at Lucerne and Algonquin, like I’ve done a thousand times before, and walk the two blocks to my street. I feel like bursting into song, like Julie Andrews in
The Sound of Music
when she bicycles down the lakeshore with the seven von Trapp children, singing at the top of her lungs. From the corner, I can see Dad’s car parked in the driveway. He’s home. I won’t even have to use the hidden key.

Across the street, Mrs. Lazar is taking groceries out of her car. She looks up and her eyes widen in surprise. “Jules, how are you?”

“Great!” I say.

“We really miss you on the street.”

“Me too,” I say. I like Mrs. Lazar. At Halloween, she always gives out candy apples to the kids she knows. Her oldest son plays violin with Mollie in the school orchestra. I wish Mollie were here this weekend. She’s in New York, auditioning for
Juilliard. But she’ll be back Monday night, and Tuesday we’ll walk to school together.

I wave good-bye to Mrs. Lazar and hurry past the
SOLD
sign on my lawn. The front door isn’t locked, so I waltz right in. “Hi, I’m home,” I call out.

Dad steps out of the living room. I fling myself into his arms.

“Jules!” he gasps.

I squeeze him tight. “I wanted to surprise you.”

He chuckles. “I’m surprised.”

“Good,” I say. “So, how’re you doing?” I peel off my coat and kick off my boots. Dad looks down at my overstuffed hockey bag. Ah, yes, the bag’s a giveaway. I realize this is going to require an immediate explanation. But that’s okay. I’m prepared. “Guess what, Dad. Great news,” I exclaim. “I’ve decided to move back here with you.”

Dad stares at me like he hasn’t heard right. “What?” I give him my most reassuring smile. “Julia, does your mother know you’re here?”

“No,” I say. “And I really don’t care.”

“Aw, Jules,” he groans.

“Don’t worry, Dad.”

He rubs his forehead with the heel of his palm, the way he does when he has a big problem. “Poopsie—”

“Dad, listen to me. Mom and I aren’t even speaking. I hate Toronto. And you’re still here. It all makes sense. We can live together. It will be so good.”

“Poopsie,” he says. “It’s not that simple.” He sighs. “I already found an apartment—”

“Great,” I say. “Two bedrooms?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Perfect.”

“No.” He shakes his head. “Poopsie, it’s not like I don’t want you to live with me—’cause maybe later, down the road, it’s something we could talk about. But the timing’s a little awkward right now …”

Something behind me catches his eye. A red Mustang is pulling into the driveway. A woman in a fur coat steps out of the car. She smiles at Dad, and he dashes outside. Her face is familiar. The real estate agent? I watch them talk in rapid-fire French. She’s chic, petite, early twenties, pretty, and she’s looking at me like she knows who I am. She smiles at me, so I smile back. Dad tries to coax her back to her car, but she shrugs him off and strides up the path, her boots crunching on the leftover patches of pebbly snow.

They step inside, and there’s this awkward moment with the three of us crammed into the front hall. She looks at my dad and says, “Irv?” But she pronounces it “Erve,” as if he’s someone else entirely.

Dad sucks in a deep breath. She flicks him an annoyed look. He says, “Jules, this is Monique.”

Monique extends a gloved hand. She says, “
Allo
, Julia, you remember me?”