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Authors: Colin Frizzell

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BOOK: Just J
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“I'm going to go up to bed,” I say to Dad at the first opportunity.

“Fine,” he says, not bothering to look at me.

I go to say good-bye to Aunt Guinevere, who's on the couch watching a martial arts movie with Billy. It's one I've seen so often that I could probably do all the moves, but I still can't remember the name—
Dragon something
or
some
–
thing Dragon
.

I watch as the main character uses his foot to flick a pole off the ground in front of him. He takes his enemy down with a quick hit to the groin and a strike under the chin. Then he pirouettes—in much the same way I used to in ballet class—and drives the butt end of the pole into another guy's chest, sending him flying. Getting into his crouching tiger stance and tucking the end of the pole under his armpit, he says—in a horribly obvious dubbed-in voice—“You are not ready for the fight you have started. Leave now or meet a most painful demise.”

And his enemies run off. How unrealistic is that!

“Night, Aunt Guin,” I say. “Is it all right if I call you Aunt Guin?”

“You can call me Aunt Dibilybop if you like,” she replies. “Why are you saying goodnight in the afternoon?”

“I'm not feeling well. Why would I call you Aunt Dibilybop?”

“You might like the sound of it,” she replies. “If you're not feeling well tomorrow, I'll mix something up for you.”

“Are you staying here?” I inquire.

“Can I call you Aunt Dibilybop?” Billy interrupts.

“Of course you can,” she says, giving him a sideways hug.

“I'm not staying here, but I'll be back again tomorrow, if you like.”

“I would,” I tell her.

“So would I,” she says, never taking her eyes off the tele–vision.

Once in bed, I pull as many blankets around me as I can find. I don't care how hot it makes me; I want it to feel like someone is holding me. Closing my eyes, I quickly drift into the cold comfort of sleep, hoping to find Mom.

Chapter Eight

T
here's one precious fleeting moment in each day when everything is all right again. It happens in the morning, although perhaps it's the night that should be given the credit for conjuring up the bittersweet images that come to comfort me.

In that single moment—the one that lies between waking and dreaming—my spirit can go beyond where my body chains me; between light and darkness, fantasy and reality, how things are and how they should be. In this place, she is waiting.

Before the funeral, the hospital, the illness, the gray skin; before the fearful mornings, hoping she had made it through the night; before the guilt from wanting it to be over; before the helplessness of watching as she became weaker and weaker; before Dad got more and more distant; before the doctors; before the diagnosis and, most importantly, before the sadness—the eternal sadness and the relentless anger— she comes into my room, wakes me with a gentle touch, caressing the side of my face as she moves the hair back and tucks it behind my ear so she can give me a kiss on the cheek.

She used to do that all the time. Sometimes I'd pretend to be sleeping until she did. I never told her that. I told her I was too old for such things and that I wished she'd stop.

“No one is ever too old for their mother's love,” she would say, giving me a hug, tickling my ribs and telling me to get up.

In that place, the place between this world and the next, I can feel her caring touch, the love in her kiss and some–times, if I get to stay long enough (which I rarely do), the safety of her arms around me.

My time with her this morning is cut short by the sound of a pounding hoof. Someone must have taught The Beast how to count to ten and she's practicing on my door. She does it twice. The first time she only makes it to eight, gets confused and has to start again.

“What?” I yell at the end of her second set. She makes it all the way to ten this time—perhaps there's hope.

“There's no need to scream,” she bellows, barging into
my
room.


What
does not mean
enter
.” I figure since she's doing so well with math, we'll move on to English.

She sighs loudly, shaking her head at me. I may have confused her—too much information, too fast. She starts picking my clothes up off the floor.

“What are you doing?” I ask politely.

“Your behavior yesterday was inappropriate, to say the least,” she says.

“Why are you touching my clothes?” I ask, to clarify.

“I don't think you even know what appropriate behavior is. You don't even know how to clean up after yourself,” she sneers.

“Put my clothes down, please,” I calmly request.

“You ruined the day,” she says.

My calmness abandons me.

“You can't ruin something that can't get any worse, you insensitive—” I hate it when my brain goes blank at the most inappropriate time—“cow!” Not very creative, I admit—and for all I know, cows may be very sensitive. Perhaps that's why they're vegetarians. Nonetheless, from the look on her face, I've hit my mark.

She throws the clothes down.

“I'm sorry that you find me so difficult to tolerate. But don't worry. It won't be for much longer,” she says as she turns and storms out.

The nausea erupts and I rush into my bathroom, where all the little pickles and sandwiches from the reception are released into the bowl.

I should have chewed more, I think, staring at the baby gherkins floating on top. The egg salad and cold cuts don't make a pretty combination, so I flush and watch the little pickles spin faster and faster until they disappear.

They get going so fast at the end that I'm afraid they might take off out of the bowl and go flying around the room or, worse yet, the house. That'd be a hard one to explain. I should have fished one out and slipped it onto the side of

Fanny's plate. That would have been fun, especially when she ate it—yummy.

“Wait a minute,” I say to myself. “It won't be for much longer? What did she mean by that?”

I quickly rinse my mouth out, throw on some clothes and dash downstairs. I stop just outside the kitchen door.

“It's the best thing for her,” I hear. “You'll be working too much to be able to give her the attention she needs. And when you aren't working, you have to look after yourself and Billy.”

What seed is the Demon Farmer sowing?

“You're right. I know you're right,” Dad says in his usual mindless tone.

“Whatcha' doin'?”

I jump at the sound of Billy's voice. He's in the hallway on the other side of the living room. For such a little guy, his voice can
really
carry. I turn and glare at him, but it's too late; I can hear the clip-clop of her hoofs fast approaching.

Deciding to enter, I wait an extra second before pushing open the swinging door.
THUD
.

“Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't know you were there!” I apologize to her in my nicest voice.

The Thing cups her face as tears rise to the fire in her eyes and lava runs from her nose. Dad jumps to her rescue.

“Tilt your head forward,” he instructs while pinching her nose for her—such a gentleman. “Jenevieve!” he yells.

“It was an accident,” I protest, choked up at the very
thought
that I'd
purposely
do such a thing.

“Just be more careful,” he says, almost apologizing.

Fanny starts to open her mouth but catches herself.

Leaving her teeth clenched, she gives me a
you'll get yours
glare. When Dad looks away, I manage a little smirk for her benefit.

Say it, Evil One. Show your horns and say it. Say what a nasty little creature you think I am. Say how I'm out to get you. Say it, say it, say it! Show Dad what you really think of me. Come on,
please
.

“It's not broken, but you should keep your head forward until the bleeding stops,” he says while helping her over to a chair.

Her eyes never leave me. I take the opportunity to wink. It looks like that may have done it. Her mouth opens and lets in air for the first time since the collision. Oxygen reaches that
nasty
little brain, but instead of speaking, It smiles.

Well, it's not really a smile, not a normal-person smile anyway. More like how you would picture Satan at Armageddon. “Oh, I'm okay,” It finally says. “Accidents do happen. Why don't we share our plans with J?”

I hate it when
she
calls me J.

“J, have a seat,” Dad says in a worried voice. He sits oh-so-slowly and avoids eye contact.

“I'm okay,” I tell him.

It will require so much less effort to storm out if I remain standing.

“Please,” he says, still avoiding eye contact.

“No, really.” The faster I can get out of here the better.

He lifts his head. His eyes, that look. I've seen it before, but not on him.

We had this dog once, a chocolate Lab named Spiral. He was Mom's dog and he was part of the family before I was.

I loved that dog. When Spiral got old, he had problems controlling his bodily functions. Sometimes he would lose control of them on the way to the door, leaving little sticky chocolate arrows from the living room to the yard. Mom and Dad would have put him to sleep if they could have figured out a way to do it without traumatizing me.

Eventually Spiral did die, and I had a meltdown for a night and depression for a week, but at least I knew we hadn't killed him, which, in hindsight, we probably should have done. I was just too young and selfish to realize that keeping some–thing alive while it's in pain isn't love, it's fear. I've thought about that a lot in the last few months—too much.

Anyway, Spiral used to get this look on his face directly following these little accidents. Not embarrassed. More like
I have no control over this. I know it's crap but it is what it is;
please accept me for who I am or put me out of my misery
.

That's what Dad has become—an animal who's lost con–trol of himself. Since scratching behind his ears and telling him
It's okay, boy, we still love you
isn't an option, I take a seat.

“We've been…,” he starts.


We
?” I say.

He looks up at me, sees where I'm going and changes his approach.


I've
been thinking it over. I know this is a tough time for you—for all of us—and I don't think I'm going to be able to give you the attention you need. I have to get back to my practice.”

“I'm sure your patients will understand if you take some time off,” I say.

“I've taken a lot of time off and they've been incredibly understanding, that's why I need…”

“You need?”

“I have a responsibility.”

“Yes, you do.”

“When you're older you'll understand,” he says.

“Why work is more important than family? I hope I never understand that.”

Dad can't even look at me now, and his helplessness causes his face to morph completely into Spiral's. I lean slightly to the side and check under his chair for a fresh chocolate roll.

“You're going to camp for the summer,” he says.

“What?”

“It's for the best,” he tells me, still looking down.

“For who?” I ask, looking at The Evil Puppeteer as a smile appears under her bloody nose.

Dad still won't look at me.

“What, is there some kind of special mourning camp set up for loser kids who've lost a parent? Oh, that'll cheer me up just fine. The dances alone must be so much fun. Does it come with Kleenex included? Or should I bring my own? What am I thinking? They're probably the sponsors—
Welcome to Camp Two-ply with Aloe.

“Your attitude isn't helping anyone,” Dad says.

“Actually it's making me feel loads better,” I say, looking at the mastermind behind this whole plan. She's smirking. That would infuriate me further if it weren't for the crusty blood on her upper lip that brings a trickle of joy into my heart. “Nice ventriloquism, by the way,” I say to her. “You don't even have to stick your hand up his…”

“That's enough!” Dad yells, finally raising his head.

It's far from enough, but it'll do for now.

“It's not a mourners' camp. It's a regular camp with some excellent counselors. Fanny knows the people who run it, and she says it's amazing.”

Oh my god, there'll be classes in cat sacrificing!

“I'm not going!” I state.

“Jenevieve!” Dad says, leaving out the
it's not up for dis
–
cussion
part of the sentence.

“You know, Dad, if all you can do without Mom is leave a trail of crap everywhere you go, you could at least have your new owner follow you around with a shovel,” I say, turning to Fanny. “But I suppose you'd be more comfort–able with a broom.”

She straightens her head to look at me, and blood flows out her nose before she remembers and tilts her head for–ward while tightening the pinch again.

I turn back to Dad. He looks almost as angry as I feel.

I think that's fair.

“J,” he says, trying to act calm, “I just can't handle…”

“Me,” I say.

His slow response tells me I'm right, and as I stand up to charge out of the room, I hear a calming voice behind me.

“She's more than welcome to come and stay with me.”

I look around to see Aunt Guin. I don't know how long she's been there, but the tension in the room doesn't seem to affect her in the slightest. She enters with grace and a smile. She comes directly to me and kisses me on the top of my head.

“Billy let me in. I hope you don't mind.” She looks over at Fanny, who has straightened her head, letting the red river run again. Aunt Guin points to her own upper lip to remind Fanny about her nose. After a few seconds, Fanny realizes what Aunt Guin is referring to and tilts her head forward. Gerbils learn faster, they really do.

BOOK: Just J
8.73Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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