Redemption (3 page)

She turned around and scanned the sidewalk. Did she see me? Could she tell I was following her?
I hid in the shadows, moving quicker than she should be able to see, and she continued on her way.

Her street was similar to most residential neighborhoods in this part of Montreal. It hadn’t changed much in decades. It was lined with duplexes, triplexes, and other “plexes.” The buildings huddled together as if to keep warm from the cruelty of winter. Their facades were of stone or brick, their second-floor balconies all sporting staircases that led to the sidewalk. Yet despite all of their similarities, they each had their own distinct personality.

She stood at the foot of her staircase, as if she was frightened by something, and then ran up and disappeared into the entrance of a third-floor apartment. I memorized its location and looked around for a vantage point. The triplex across the street was stone and quite ornate. This would be a good spot.

But I couldn’t watch now, not after having just been freed.

4

Aude

As I go to sprint up the stairs, a rattling in the garbage cans next to me catches my attention. I assume it’s a cat or a raccoon and try to shoo it away. But the creature jumps toward me instead. The huge raccoon has only three twisted legs. And I don’t know how I know this, but it’s obvious that it’s not a result of an injury, but of a mutation. Part of me feels bad for the thing, but it’s seriously creeping me out. It focuses its eyes on me and moves closer. Its movements are deliberate, almost intelligent.

I back away one slow step at a time and run up to my apartment, slamming the door shut behind me. I lean against the closed door and let myself slide down to the entryway’s old tile floor. I breathe heavily a few times and try to regain my composure. Something wells up in my throat and my eyes water. I take several more breaths until I am sure I’m not going to break down and cry.

That’s not me. I’m not the crying type; I’m stronger than that. But I’m freaked out. I don’t even know what is real and what isn’t. Did that man on the subway really ask me about the drumming and chanting? Of course he didn’t. This must be another symptom of post-traumatic stress. I’m filling out details to complete my fantasy. Actually, didn’t I read that from a chapter on schizophrenia? But I’m not that crazy, am I?

Whispers come from Mom’s bedroom. She isn’t expecting me back until much later and it seems she planned to take advantage of her time alone. It’s better that way, I can’t be tempted to go to her for comfort.

These situations don’t happen often, but I know Mom’s rules. I straighten myself up, brush debris off my skirt, and take off my boots. I go straight to my bedroom, barring the door behind me.

My friends have had to beg and plead with their parents to get a lock for their bedrooms and for most of them it’s unsuccessful. But not me. My mom is crazy, and she insists that I not only have a lock on my bedroom door, but that I use it whenever she has a friend over.

My mom gets lonely. I get it, and I get why it’s always someone different, but sometimes I think she might as well accept money for what she does. I don’t mind locking my door though—it’s not like I want to run into one of them.

I boot up my laptop, open my iTunes playlist, hit shuffle, and turn up the volume. This shouldn’t be necessary since Mom is discreet. But her friends aren’t always. I shudder at the memories.

I check my texts again but still nothing. I’m still pissed at them. I’m still pissed at myself. I’m not scared, I remind myself, I’m just really, really angry. That’s the only reason tears threaten to overcome me. They stood me up, and it’s not the first time. I mean, I go all the way to Crescent to hang out with them and they can’t be bothered. I may as well have stayed here. It’s safe here.

I live right off of Ste-Catherine, which, in my opinion, is one of Montreal’s cooler streets. The nearby metro stations are über-convenient for going out. There are loads of restaurants and shops right up the street from me; many of which don colorful rainbows in their window displays and advertisements. I love the atmosphere. Some say it’s weird that Mom and I live in the Gay Village, but it suits Mom’s distrust of straight men.

I dial Patrick’s cell and Lucy answers.

“I thought we had a standing date on Saturdays. Why did you guys bail?” I’m on the offensive. It isn’t fair, but I can’t help but feel that if she and Trick had been there tonight, I wouldn’t have had to deal with what happened. I wouldn’t be sitting in my room by myself shaking in anger. I wouldn’t have to admit that I’m becoming a prime case for Mom’s profession. Actually, who am I kidding, I’m too extreme of a case for her. If I was her patient, she’d refer me to a shrink so I could get drugged up.

“Sorry, but we wanted to hang out, just the two of us,” she says. What she means is that they didn’t want me around. They’re a couple now and everything’s changed. We used to be inseparable, the three of us. We teamed up after attending music camp together and never bothered with making other friends from that point on.

When Trick said he wanted to form a band, it seemed like the natural progression to our friendship. I never had a doubt we would make it big. Well, not until Trick and Lucy decided to jeopardize everything because they can’t keep their hands off of each other.

“I totally get it, another make-out-a-thon.” I’ve witnessed enough of their sessions to know it happens everywhere. The bus, restaurants, and even band practices have been defiled by their lip-locking. I can’t go anywhere anymore without having to see them messing around.

“We’re just hanging out, Odd.”

“And making out,” I say.

“Maybe … so what?”

“I can’t believe you couldn’t even call or text to let me know. Whatever. It doesn’t matter,” I say. But it does matter. I’m freaked out. I need to gain control over my fear.

And then I know exactly how to do just that. “Anyway, can I talk to Trick now or is he too busy with you?”

“Why?”

“An idea for the drums.” Maybe I’m not going crazy; maybe I was just hit with creative genius. Don’t I read these types of stories all the time?

“Oh. Band stuff.” Lucy’s dismissive tone dampers my suddenly inspired mood.

I huff. “Yeah, band stuff. Or are you guys too obsessed with yourselves to care about Lucid Pill?”

“It’s not that and you know it. Besides, look who’s talking. It seems like the band is all you care about.”

Maybe she’s right, but I don’t have anything else in my life. And isn’t the band a worthy cause? Ever since I was eleven years old, I invested everything in Lucid Pill. I invested everything in my friendship with Lucy and Trick.

“All you care about is sucking face with Trick.”

“That’s harsh, Odd.”

“Maybe, but it’s true.”

“You’re just jealous.”

“Of you and Trick? Yeah right. I just—” But I don’t know how to finish this sentence. I don’t want things to change. I can’t control this and it could ruin everything. How can’t she see that?

“Well, if you’re done with your whining … ”

“You know what? Never mind. Let’s just drop it.” I sigh. This conversation isn’t going to way I wanted it to. But what did I expect? I can’t very well tell them I need them. I can’t tell them I’m going crazy and my mom is having one of her escapades and I have no one to turn to. I bite my lip to keep it from quivering. I’m fine.

“Sure, whateve—”

I want to scream at Lucy to notice something is wrong. She should ask me so I have to tell her. But she says nothing more and just hangs up the phone. My shoulders slump as I put my phone down on the night table beside me. With my eyes closed, I take a deep breath. I wanted to tell them about the episode at the church but instead I just got angry. It’s all so weird and I don’t know how to bring it up, it’s one thing to admit to myself I’m crazy, but another thing entirely to admit it to others.

My body is exhausted, but I’m too wired, too freaked out to relax. I go online and check out YouTube videos of Native drumming, seeking the right sound. I can use this for the band. I can take control of this situation and let it inspire me.

The pounding at the door disturbs me from my research on Iroquois water drums. I’m getting closer to an answer and I’m obsessing, I know, but it’s better than anything else I could be thinking about tonight.

I stare at the door and sigh. I’m not in the mood for this conversation. I never am, but especially not tonight.

“Odd, it’s me!” Mom sounds agitated. Nothing new there.

I know what’s coming next. I let out another exaggerated sigh and consider ignoring her. There is no avoiding it though. I’ll have to let her in eventually. I drag myself up and to the door and unlock it. Mom drops herself down on my bed with a sigh. Her eyes are shiny as if she’s barely holding in the tears. It’s a scene I’ve been in often before. I place my arm around her shoulder, and hold her close to me. Taking this role isn’t as easy as usual, not when all I need tonight is for her to comfort me—not the other way around.

“Do you want to talk about it, Mom?” Because I have something I really would like to talk about, and if only someone could ask me if I wanted to talk, maybe I could let it all out. But no one has asked me.

“I sometimes wonder if I’m doing it all wrong, Odd.”

“Why would you think that, Mom?” Of course, I know why. The guy that just visited got under her skin. But I ask the question anyways because it’s a sort of ritual that we go through.

“Oh Odd, tonight is one of those nights where I feel … ”

“Empty?”

She looks at me, and we both understand that right now, she is the child and I am the parent. She isn’t a bad mother. Normally, she’s actually pretty awesome. Anybody who has ever met her tells me how lucky I am to have such a cool mom. And it’s true, I am lucky in some aspects. But she’s broken, and on nights like this one, I’m the only thing she has keeping her together. I understood that a long time ago. I’m for her what the band is for me. She needs me.

“What happened, Mom?” Again, a question to which I know the answer. She can handle the guys that treat her like crap and the clingy ones whose hearts she breaks, but every now and then, she meets one of the good guys—one she could be happy with if she let herself. And then she treats him the same way as any other man who makes a brief appearance in her life. But they upset her.

“He said some things … ”

“You don’t have to talk about it, Mom.”

Really, she doesn’t have to talk about it and it will spare me the drama. More importantly, I can be spared the heartbreak that I’ll feel for her.

“He told me he could take the hurt away. He said I was a beautiful person inside as well as out and that he wanted to make me happy, that I deserved to be happy. But I am happy already, aren’t I? And what does he know about what I deserve?”

I look at her long and hard. Sometimes I don’t understand what is happening in her head. Is she happy? I never really stopped to wonder about that. She’s just Mom. Red hair, wide eyes, easy smile. It’s easy to pretend she’s happy. But what is it really like to be her? What is it like to have lived what she has? To be fifty years old and to have nothing. To have no one but a sixteen-year-old daughter who will one day leave her to live a life of her own. I sigh.

“I have to agree with him, Mom. You do deserve to be happy. But you don’t need this guy to tell you that.” I say it because this is what she wants to hear, but I wonder. Maybe she does need somebody. Isn’t that why Lucy and Trick got together and decided to screw around with all of our hopes and dreams? Because they needed someone?

“No, I don’t need a man to tell me anything,” she agrees.

I nod to her thoughtfully. She’s easier convinced than I am. I try to imagine Mom settling down and growing old with someone, but I can’t. This isn’t who she is. And it isn’t who I am. Mom and I, we are fine the way we are. We are stronger than that.

I give her a hug and I linger there for longer than I normally would. Her arms around me comfort me, but I feel the tight control I have over my emotions loosen, so I pull away from her and she smiles at me. It’s a sad smile, but I know it won’t be sad for very long. She’s good at picking herself up now. She no longer mopes for days over these types of things.

“How did I raise such a smart, levelheaded girl?”

On her bad days, I wonder that myself, but Mom isn’t usually such a mess. If I’m smart and levelheaded, it’s because that’s the way she is. She’s been through more than I ever could imagine. I don’t answer her question, I just smile at her and she beams back, and this time she looks happy.

“How was your evening? You’re back early,” she says.

I want to tell her, I need to tell her, but I lie to her; my mother who is always honest with me no matter what. “It was boring. Lucy and Trick weren’t out, preferring an at home make-out session instead.”

Mom rolls her eyes. She feels the same way as I do about their relationship.

“I don’t know. I didn’t feel like hanging out with anyone else.” I’m pleased with how much of what I say is true.

“I hope they come to their senses soon. So what did I just disturb?”

“I’m looking into a new idea for percussion. I heard some drums tonight, and it inspired me. I’ll just need to get Trick on board.”