Heartache and Other Natural Shocks (36 page)

That’s the kicker. I mean, shit! Julia Epstein, of all people. I still can’t figure out what the hell was going on in her head! She had to know she had no chance against Ian, so what did
she think she was doing out there? What kind of idiot goes around stealing weapons from somebody’s house, picking a fight with an expert fencer and holding a sword to a guy’s neck in front of over two hundred people? Talk about stupid! And yeah, I know she was upset about Geoff, but what exactly was she trying to prove? If she wanted to get back at Ian, there are better ways than doing it in public.

And the saddest thing about the play is that up until the point where Julia lost it, everyone was so fantastic. I mean, every single one of us. And if I was good—which I was—Julia was great! Even in the bedroom scene, where Hamlet grabs Gertrude by the shoulders and tells her what a whore she is, I was totally convinced that Julia was Hamlet. I actually stopped thinking about her as a girl. She was so intense and so real. Suddenly we weren’t pretending anymore. We took that play to another level. I actually
became
the queen. Gertrude’s words flew out of my mouth, like Carla and Gertrude were mind-melded. I never knew that was possible. I mean, shit, that really blew my mind! And even the people in the audience who usually hate Shakespeare and were only there because their kid was in the show (my parents) were totally hooked. It was incredible. Better than drugs. Better than sex. Yeah, it was magic.

So, with all that adrenaline and talent, it’s a shame the play closed after opening night. Geoff was injured, Julia got suspended, and Ian ran away from home. I found out from
Mr. Gabor the next morning. He called me into his office at recess and asked if I knew where Ian was.

“At home?” I asked, getting this sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.

“No, Ian is not at home. This morning, when Mr. and Mrs. Slater woke up, Ian was gone, and so was his motorcycle.” Mr. Gabor never calls him Ian, and it sent goose bumps up my arms.

“Maybe he went to Jim Malone’s,” I said, but even as I said it, I knew it wasn’t true.

“He took clothing and some items from the house,” Mr. Gabor said. “His parents phoned the school. They’re very concerned.”

Concerned? Right. Furious, more like it. I wonder what “items” Ian stole. Money? Pearls? The Picasso print? Something he could sell for quick cash?

“Cabrielli, did he speak to you last night?” Mr. Gabor asked.

I shook my head. “Not a word.” After
Hamlet
ended, backstage was a madhouse: Julia fainting, parents plunging onto the stage, everybody upset and confused. And in the middle of that, the Slaters barged in. I saw Mr. Slater grab Ian in the wings and rattle him like a bag of marbles. The man is a beast. And she’s an alcoholic. It’s just like we suspected. The whole family is screwed up.

So, I told Mr. Gabor everything: the party, Geoff, the Slaters, the works. ’Cause there’s no point in covering it up
anymore. Ian is gone, and he’s not coming back. He’s probably past the border by now, zooming south, racing into the sun, flying free and solo on his bike. It’s what he wanted. And maybe he’ll be happier now. Anyway, he had nothing left to do but run.

And yeah, like Marlene and Debbie always tell me, Ian is trouble. I know that. He’s wild and selfish. He doesn’t care about school. He smokes way too much pot. He drives too fast. But they don’t know how we sang songs in bed and drew messages in ink on each other’s skin. And that boy kissed like there was no tomorrow. They don’t know that side of him.

“I Shall Be Released”

“Do you know why you’re here?” he asks.

I force myself to answer calmly. Do not be irreverent. This isn’t an existential question. He’s not asking about my purpose in life. He’s asking why I’m here, in this office, sitting on the couch across from him.

He sits in a swivel chair. There’s an oak coffee table between us, with a ceramic bowl in the center and the requisite box of Kleenex. The bowl is pale blue, fading to white at the rim. Pretty. Maybe his wife bought it. There’s a picture of her and the kids on his desk. They’re smiling, heads leaning together. Two girls, a boy, a mom and a dad.

Instantly, I’m ambushed. All threads lead to my father. Nothing is innocent anymore. Not the corny family photo on this desk, not my dad’s old sweater left behind in the closet, not the cashier saying, “Have a nice day”—as if nice days are possible. The casual things are always the worst, the things other people take for granted. Even listening to music is difficult now—so many songs about undying love, or spurned love, or broken hearts. These things sting, like paper cuts.

Dr. Martin is waiting for my answer. He’s about the same age as my dad, but he has thinning hair and the kind of eyes that watch you all the time, even when he’s not looking directly at you. He wears a shirt, but no tie. Is that supposed to put me at ease? I’m sure he’s a nice man, but still, this is a waste of time.

The answer to his question is simple: I’m here because the principal said that, as a condition of returning to school, I’d have to see a psychiatrist. It’s really not an unreasonable request, considering what I did. If it wasn’t for my marks, the support of teachers like Mr. Gabor and the “extenuating circumstances,” as Mom explained at their meeting, I would have been expelled. Instead, I got a three-week suspension. I’m relieved. I need the rest, and I can’t face school anyway. I’m tired, but I can’t sleep. I have trouble concentrating. My mind tends to drift, just like it’s drifting now.

I focus on Dr. Martin. “I’m here because the school requires it,” I say.

“Do you see this as a formality?”

Yes, but that’s not what he wants to hear. So I say, “I know what I did was wrong. I’m really not a crazy person. I’m very sorry for the trouble I caused.” I try to look contrite, but Dr. Martin doesn’t seem impressed. I guess my acting skills have slipped. He should have seen my Hamlet. Now
there
was a performance. I remember it like a dream. If I look in the shadows, will Hamlet still be there?

Dr. Martin flips open a file. Probably a report from the
principal, or Mr. Squash, or Mr. Gabor, or maybe even the police. Mr. Slater threatened to lay charges against me for theft, break and enter, and assault with a dangerous weapon, but after Ian ran away, everything was dropped.

Dr. Martin cuts right to the chase. Full points for not messing around. “It says here that you attacked a fellow student. Maybe we could start with that.”

“It was the duel scene in
Hamlet
,” I explain. “I sort of got carried away.”

“Did you initiate the fight?” he asks.

“Yes, but Ian’s the better fencer.”

“The report says you drew blood.”

“I didn’t really hurt him,” I say.

Dr. Martin looks at my bandaged hand. “You got hurt.”

“That was a mistake.”

“It says you fought with real swords.”

“Yeah.”

“Isn’t that dangerous?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you hold a sword to his throat?”

“Look, if I’d wanted to kill him, he’d be dead,” I say dryly.

Dr. Martin raises an eyebrow. Oops. I must avoid sarcasm. You cannot joke about killing people, especially not with a shrink. It makes you look like a psychopath. And I don’t want to make these appointments a habit.

“Julia—”

“Jules.”

“Jules,” he says, “if Ian’s the better fencer, and you chose to pick a fight with him, did you expect to lose?”

“Winning or losing wasn’t the point.”

“What was the point, Jules?”

“I just wanted to fight back.”

“Against Ian?”

I nod. “For starters.”

“Who else?”

“I have a list.”

Dr. Martin laughs out loud. At least he has a sense of humor. He tells me we have an hour. “Start wherever you like,” he says.

Days pass. Time is elastic. Mom quits her job with Dr. Katzenberg, so she’s around the house a lot. She says she’ll look for another job after I go back to school. Thing are better between us now that she’s not pretending. We talk about practical things, like finding a house to rent next fall, or signing me up for driving lessons. She looks at me differently these days, like I’m someone she’d like to get to know better. I look at her differently too, now that I understand.

On the weekend, Dad comes to Toronto. I refuse to see him. He stays at the Howard Johnson Hotel and takes Bobby out for a burger and fries. He tells Bobby about Monique,
and Bobby cries for days after that. Mrs. Cabrielli sends over casseroles that pile up, uneaten, in the fridge.

Sometimes, when Bobby can’t sleep, he sneaks into bed with me, and then he asks those terrible questions, like “Why did Dad stop loving Mom?” and “Does this mean Dad’s never coming to my hockey games anymore?” and “How can he be my dad if he’s living in another city?” On nights like these, I lie in bed and pretend I’m in a sanatorium, the kind you see in the movies where they send tuberculosis patients to recover. I imagine that I’m in a cold, clean room, looking out on an English country garden where birds sing, the air is crisp, and everything is washed with rain.

Sometimes I just feel disembodied, like pieces of me have been stored in canopic jars, like I’m a dead pharaoh waiting to be stitched together in the afterlife.

Or I see people doing ordinary things, like walking dogs or mowing lawns, and I wonder how they can be so content when there’s so much damage in the world.

I know this isn’t normal. Dr. Martin says it’s part of grieving and that divorce is like a death in the family. He tells me to keep a journal. I write in it every day. I tape Diane Arbus’s monkey photo to the cover. I list the annoying things people say when they’re trying to make me feel better:

These banalities don’t help. I wonder if people said this stuff to Pierre Laporte’s children after he was murdered. I think about those children from time to time, and I wonder how they’re getting on. The
FLQ
is yesterday’s news, but some of us haven’t forgotten.

Mollie phones often. She doesn’t mess with platitudes. She says, “Jules, your father is an idiot, and he’s going to live to regret this. When she’s thirty, he’ll be fifty, and then she’ll dump his sorry ass. And he’ll beg your mom to take him back, but it will be too late for that. I think I’m going to egg his car.”

“Maybe you could also egg
her
car,” I say. “It’s the red Mustang parked in the driveway.”

“I could spray-paint a few choice words on the doors.”

“And let the air out of the tires,” I add.

Our conversations are full of plots—elaborate, devious, gruesome, adolescent fantasies. We know we won’t carry them out, but it feels good to plan them.

Geoff and Benjamin bring me homework. Geoff’s ribs
are healing well. My hand is still swollen and sore. I’m going to have an ugly scar. Sometimes the three of us take walks in the ravine. I ask Benjamin what people are saying about me at school, and he says, “I do not hold currency with gossipmongers and mudslingers, and neither should you.” But I dread going back.

The day before my suspension is over, the season turns, and the flat heat of summer arrives. Geoff decides it’s perfect weather for an excursion. He picks me up in Baby Blue and we head to The Beaches for the first time since Christmas. I haven’t told him about my encounter with his father, but as we park in front of the stone house, I know I can’t avoid it. I don’t want any secrets between us, even the painful ones.

“You know when you were in the hospital …,” I say. Geoff looks over at me. “When they couldn’t reach Clarissa, they phoned your father. He came. And I met him.”

“Oh,” Geoff says. He glances at the house.

“Yeah,” I say. “You look a lot like him.”

“Ironic, isn’t it,” Geoff says softly. “Did you talk to him?”

“Not much,” I say. “He didn’t stay long.”

Geoff looks at his feet. “I guess I’m surprised he came at all.”

“Men can be so stupid,” I say. “Present company excluded, of course.”

Geoff smiles. We walk in silence down the street and across the park to the water’s edge. Today, the lake is cerulean
blue and a million sun-sparks play on the waves. Geoff stares up at the cloudless sky. I toss a stone into the water.

“You know, you could have told me,” I say.

“I know,” Geoff says. “I should’ve, but I didn’t.”

“Are you going to be okay?” I ask.

Geoff nods. “I’ll learn to be.”