Not Suitable For Family Viewing (20 page)

I have to struggle to keep listening, to keep breathing. I feel like my blood’s turned to Perrier water. It’s cold and it’s fizzy and it’s freezing my whole body from the inside out. Rosie looks at me to make sure it’s okay, then goes on.

“I got over it, though. I knew Minerva. I knew she wouldn’t have taken my wallet if she didn’t really need it. Something had been bothering her in the last few weeks. I tried to ask her what it was but she always said, ‘Nothing.’ She didn’t want to talk about it. I just hope that wherever she is now, she’s happy.”

Rosie is crying now. Not sobbing or anything but there are tears streaming down her cheeks. I should put my arm around her—ask if she’s okay—but I can’t. I just sit there, stupid.

Stupefied.

I’ll never talk again. You hear about that happening. People have this terrible shock and they never say another word for the rest of their lives.

Rosie wipes her face, blows her nose then stuffs the Kleenex up her sleeve. She’s trying to smile.

“We had a lot of fun together, Minerva and me. We used to talk about all the things we wanted to do when we grew up. I’d never been able to do that with anyone before. She knew how to bring me out of myself, I guess you’d say. I told her I wanted to have a daycare centre. I did—and I never really changed my mind. Minerva, though, had a new idea every week. It was like once she realized there was a big wide world beyond Bister Island, she couldn’t get enough of it. She saw a bus for the first time, she wanted to be a bus driver. She got her teeth fixed, she wanted to be a dentist. She went to the gas station, she wanted to be the person who cleaned the windshields. The funniest one, though, was when we took her out to get fish and chips. She decided she wanted to be a cook! That slayed us! The girl couldn’t cook for beans. The only decent thing Minerva could make were these old-fashioned molasses pancakes. Now what did she call them? She had some funny name for them.”

I remember Mom and Dad and me at that cabin we rented. We sang songs, we played board games and Mom cooked. It was the only time I remember her cooking. I remember laughing so hard when she told me what those pancakes were called.

“Lassie tootins?” I say. It’s funny—those were just nonsense words before. They didn’t mean anything. Now they mean everything.

Rosie looks at me and nods.

She says, “I knew it as soon as you walked in. You have her eyes.”

Thursday, 6 p.m.

You, You and Mimi

“Old Dogs and New Tricks.” Gerontologist Dr. Jonathan Allen looks at some of the amazing things octogenarians can teach today’s youth.

We’re almost at Port Minton and I still haven’t told Mrs. Hiltz yet. The rain has just started. She’s driving this enormous old Mercedes and chatting away about the first settlers in the area and various sailing ships that landed here and the impact of the terrible winter of 1818 and I’m going, “Oh, yes” like I’m actually following but all I’m doing is waiting for the right time to say something.

When is the right time to say something like this?

She starts in on the early hunting practices of the native population. I notice she moves her head as if she’s outlining a square when she talks. She always uses complete sentences. She could be a television reporter. Mimi used to be a television reporter. Did Mrs. Hiltz teach her that too?

There’s
never
going to be a right time to say something like this. I should just leap in right now. Get it over with.

Mrs. Hiltz might still be mad at Minerva. I don’t want to open
up old wounds or anything. How many valuables did she take off with? How much were they worth?

Mrs. Hiltz slows down until she’s almost at a dead stop, then turns on to the Port Minton Road. The sky and water are grey. Rain is pinging off the hood. We’ll be eating our picnic indoors by the look of things.

We’re alone in the car. There are no distractions. Mimi could buy Mrs. Hiltz as many valuables as she wants now. She could make it up to her. Mrs. Hiltz should know the truth. There’s nothing stopping me.

“Mrs. Hiltz?” I say.

She turns and looks at me with her eyebrows raised like two perfect little white umbrellas. She’s smiling. She’s probably happy because she thinks I’m going to ask her some probing question about shipbuilding or pemmican-making or something.

I almost do—because I’m a chicken—but then I just blurt it out.

“Minerva Bister is my mother.”

Mrs. Hiltz’s eyebrows collapse and her lips go flat. She turns her head away from me as if she’s a mechanical doll. She looks straight ahead. She moistens her lips and says, “Yes. I know.”

“You do?”

“Of course I do,” she says. “Why do you think we’re going on this little outing? I knew it that first day, as soon as I saw your hands.”

“My hands?”

“Yes. Your nails. That’s what gave it away. And your hair too, of course. Your auburn hair.”

I don’t understand. My hands aren’t like my mother’s. My hair’s not like my mother’s. What’s she talking about?

“Oh, and I guess it wasn’t just that.” Mrs. Hiltz is smiling again.
“There are those cold blue eyes, of course. And your manner too. Asking me about Bister Island and Port Minton and the Ingrams as if this were just some innocent little history project you’re working on!” She seems to find this funny.

“You’re so like your mother. Really. All that lying, manipulating, sneaking around behind my back—”

“No!” I go. “That’s not what I was doing. Honestly. I didn’t know Minerva was my mother until today. Honestly!” How do I tell her that I was lying for a different reason entirely?

Mrs. Hiltz coughs out a laugh. She’s driving faster now. Too fast for a twisty road. I put my hand on the dashboard as she screeches around a bend. The ocean’s almost straight below me.

“Oh, really, dear.” She puts on this squeaky voice. “‘Honestly!…Honestly!’” She shakes her head. “Methinks the lady doth protest too much. You’re a scheming tramp just like your mother. I clearly should have hit you harder when I had the chance.”

It’s as if somebody slipped a rope around my neck and yanked. I get it.

“
You
hit me?” I say. “In the car? That was you?” My skin shrinks.

“Yes.” She sounds proud, as if I just complimented her on her prize-winning begonias.

A picture of Mrs. Hiltz in her nightie flashes into my head. Just like that, I understand something else too. The way she was out of breath. Her cold hands. Her shoes—her outdoor shoes—crunching through the glass on the floor. The fact that Casper didn’t bark.

My screaming didn’t wake her up last night. She’d been outside.

“You threw the brick too,” I say.

“Yes, of course.”

“
Why
?” My heart feels like it’s trying to break out of my chest.
This is crazy. Why would she do that? You’d have to hate a person to do something like that.

She laughs. “Because killing you on the road proved more difficult than I thought it was going to be. At the last minute, I held back. I was afraid to end up in the ditch myself. I didn’t have the courage to try again. I decided another really good scare might be enough to stop you. It had to. I couldn’t let you try to destroy us again.”

“
Destroy you again?
What are you talking about?”

She sneers at me. “You know perfectly well what I’m talking about! I tried to be kind to you people! I gave my heart and soul to Minerva Bister! I invited her into my home. I taught her how to speak, how to dress, how to brush her rotten little teeth—which, by the way, I spent a small fortune to replace. And how does she repay me?…She seduces my son! She gets herself pregnant!”

My scalp goes all prickly before I even understand what the words mean.

Great big Percy.

The kid in the yearbook with the thick red hair.

Of course.

Percy Hiltz is my father.

Mrs. Hiltz is holding the steering wheel so tight her knuckles have gone white. For the first time, I notice her stubby thumbnail. It’s shaped and filed and painted a pale pink but otherwise it’s just like mine.

She takes short, loud breaths in through her nose. “Minerva duped dear, sweet Percy into believing they’d make the perfect family!”

The rain has made the pavement slippery. We hit the shoulder. Gravel goes flying. I grab the wheel and jerk us back onto the road.

I scream. “Slow down, Mrs. Hiltz! Please!”

She takes my hand—my sprained hand—and bends it back at the wrist. I don’t know if it’s the shock or the pain but it’s like she zapped me with a Taser. I didn’t expect an old lady to be so strong. I let go of the wheel. I fall back against the door, panting.

Mrs. Hiltz slows down.

“Excuse me. I apologize. I shouldn’t let myself get so upset,” she says. She sounds calm.

I breathe again. I rub my wrist and try to believe that this is just another scare.

“Now where was I? Oh yes. Minerva. She
said
she wanted to marry Percy and have the baby—but she changed her tune fast enough when I brought out my wallet. You see, my dear, everyone has their price. Minerva’s was twenty-thousand dollars—a lot higher than most people’s—but she was a lot smarter than most people too. Believe me, there were no flies on that girl—at least not once I’d given her a good bath!”

Mrs. Hiltz laughs at that. She has little white blobs of spit in the corners of her mouth and she doesn’t even care.

I sit as still as I can, looking straight ahead, my back stiff. I don’t want to do anything to upset her. Maybe this is like one of Anita’s little fits. She’ll blow up, get over it, apologize. I’ll live. I’ll go home.

Mrs. Hiltz is driving normally now. She’s watching the road. She looks like the perfect grandmother, but her voice is hard. “I gave her the money and she promised I’d never see that despicable little face of hers again. It set my portfolio back a bit but, believe me, it was worth it. A Bister grandchild! I never would have been able to hold my head up in this town again.”

I tell myself to ignore her. Hate her later. Don’t move now. Stay alive.

“No,” she says. “The money was well spent. Minerva Bister would have destroyed Percy. It took him years to get back on his feet again after what she did to him—then you come along to ruin him, just as his political career is finally taking off. You’re not going to blackmail us!”

The woman’s insane. I try to sound reasonable. I say, “That’s not why I’m here, Mrs. Hiltz. Really. I don’t want money. I’d never hurt Percy.”

“You’re right,” she says. “You never will. Because I won’t let you. I made the mistake before of thinking you Bisters could be trusted. I know better now. I’m not afraid of the ditch any more. I reminded myself this morning that a mother’s job is to protect her children.”

She looks right at me. She tries to put on her nice-old-lady face again. “Just relax, dear,” she says. “It shouldn’t hurt much if you relax.”

She slams her foot to the floor and cranks the steering wheel to the right. We’re heading straight for the ocean.

I can’t just hope any more. I grab the wheel. Mrs. Hiltz lunges at me, slaps me, elbows me. I can’t believe how fierce she is. I’m trying to control the car but I can barely see the road.

I’m terrified and frantic but suddenly I’m angry too. I scream at her, “Are you nuts? I don’t need your money!”

She coughs out a laugh and I know that’s just another way of telling me I’m a scheming tramp.

I think that’s what gets me. Hearing her laugh like that. At me, at Mom.

Well, screw you. I don’t care if you are Mrs. Enos Hiltz. As far as I’m concerned, you’re nothing. Nothing compared to my mother, that’s for sure.

I get this burst of something inside me. A doctor would probably say it was adrenalin but that’s not what it feels like. Adrenalin’s just a hormone or a chemical or an enzyme or something. This is bigger than that. It completely overwhelms me. I’m like a grizzly protecting her cub.

I grab Mrs. Hiltz’s head so she can see me. I’m not even thinking about dying any more. I go, “Minerva is Mimi Schwartz! Do you understand? Minerva is Mimi!”

She gets this look of horror on her face, and I think I’ve gotten through to her—but I’ll never know. She stops flailing. Her mouth opens. She makes a type of groan I’ve never heard before, and then her head clunks onto my shoulder.

I try to pull the wheel hard to the left but her body’s in the way. I’ve got maybe a second to realize we’re going to crash.

I scream, “Mom!” and my head snaps at the impact.

The next thing I remember is Embree Bister looking in the window and saying, “You all right, maid?”

Saturday, 1 p.m.

Radio Mimi

“Around the World with a Carry-on Bag.” Mimi shares some of her best tips for travelling light.

I see the cheap rental car parked near the beach. I ask Levi to drop me off here. I’ll walk the rest of the way by myself.

“No, you won’t,” he says. “I’m coming too.”

I won’t let him. She didn’t want anyone to know yet. She promised she’d give her PR people at least a day or two to figure out how to spin things before the media get wind of this.

He says, “I could be your bodyguard. C’mon. Please!”

He’s trying to jolly me out of this. He’s trying to see what I’m up to. He knows nothing except that Mrs. Hiltz had a heart attack, and there was a crash, and my mother is here to see me. He thinks it’s strange she wants to meet at the beach, but there’s nothing I can do about that. I’m not telling him anything else. Not yet.

“No,” I say. “I can take care of myself, thank you very much.”

“Right—” he says.

We both laugh. I’ve got fifteen stitches in my forehead to complement my black eye.

“Sure you can.”

I start toward the beach even though he hasn’t left yet. Despite everything that’s happened in the last week, the first thing that goes through my head is,
I walk away and he’s going to see my fat ass.

It makes me laugh. I turn back. He
was
looking at my ass but, judging by the expression on his face, he didn’t mind the view.

I motion,
Get out of here!
with my hands. He does this
Pleeease
? thing with his face. I shake my head. He pretends to pout but eventually backs away.

I head down the path. Mom and Percy were this age when they met. I wonder if they goofed around like that too, if he made her laugh, if he told her how pretty she was. I think of Percy in the hospital room with his head in his hands and I’m pretty sure he did. It was something about the way he looked at me when he found out. The way his eyes filled up with tears when he tried to tell me how hard it’s been all these years not knowing what happened to her, to their baby. The way he kept staring at me.

He must have loved her.

I cross the wobbly little boardwalk and I can’t help asking myself,
But did she love him?

We didn’t talk about that on the phone the other night. She was too shocked. Me being in Port Minton, the accident, Mrs. Hiltz dying, all that stuff about the Bisters—it was a lot for me to dump on her at once.

She didn’t try to hide, though. She admitted right out who she was. She said, “yeah” to being a Bister, to taking Rosie’s identity, to getting money from Mrs. Hiltz, to everything in
Canadian Geographic,
to most of the stuff on enoughaboutmimi.com. Even
Us Magazine
apparently was onto something. Dad’s ex-girlfriend
was going around telling all these people that I wasn’t his kid. Mimi knew everything would come out sooner or later, she said. She always meant to tell me. She just couldn’t face it yet.

I went, “Why?”

She paused, then said, “We have to talk.”

It was almost funny. It was such a Mimi thing to say. The studio guest makes some sort of vague comment about a new relationship and Mimi leans in close and goes, “Oooh, darling. We have to talk.” The audience laughs. They cut to a commercial. Revelations to follow.

The tone was different now, though. She wasn’t trying to get something out of me this time.
We have to talk
was a promise.

“I’ll fly in tomorrow,” she said.

I wanted to say, no, tell me everything now. I didn’t want to give her time to come up with a new story. But, turns out, I’m glad we waited. It’s given me a chance to get everything straight in my own head.

At first, it was the facts that were so big and scary. But now, they just sort of…are. Dad isn’t my dad. Percy is. Grandpa isn’t my grandpa. Embree is. Mom is my mom but she’s not Mimi. She probably isn’t Minerva or Rosie any more either.

Who is she really?

That’s what I want to know now. Who cares about the facts?