Alone at 90 Foot (4 page)

My dad has a new girlfriend. Her name is Jennifer Reid and she's some kind of big banker. She wears these technical suits and this real severe hair. Aside from those things, there's got to be something majorly wrong with her. The thing is, she's forty years old and has never been married. That's an entire lifetime without any takers. Whatever her problem is, it's not glaring. But I'm going to find out.

This is Dad's third attempt. The first one was sort of nondescript, just this lady he met through work. I didn't see much of her. I think he was embarrassed to bring her home. As far as I could
figure, it only lasted a few weeks.

The second, he was lucky to get away from alive. First of all, Lynette was, like, twenty-eight, a tad young for Dad. I think she worked in a casino. Her favorite drink was whiskey and soda. She dressed like a, well, I'm not going to say it, but you get the picture. And she had this annoying kid. He ran in circles around the coffee table until I thought Dad would spaz. In other words, she didn't have a thing in common with Mom.

The thing is, and Dad didn't get this — although I did right away and I told him so — she didn't want to be a partner, she wanted to be treated like his special little girl. A position, I might add, that was already taken. How did I know? Just let me say, women know women.

She wanted to go to this restaurant and that movie. She only drank this type of wine and hated Dad's chili. She couldn't stand his blues CDs and refused to walk if they could drive. She whined and whined and whined, and being in sort of a vulnerable mood, Dad always gave in.

Now, Dad has, or I should say, had, this little MG sports car which had been in our garage all of my life. At least once a week, he'd be out there in the garage, whistling away, while he just puttered around, polishing it. On sunny days he'd take Mom or me for rides along lower Marine Drive. With a
big smile on his face, and the smell of the sea in our hair, we'd swing through the forest, past the glittering ships until we reached Horseshoe Bay. Then we'd eat fish and chips at Troll's while we watched the ferries come in.

Mom never drove the MG. Once, when Dad was away, I suggested we take it out. She said she'd rather not. She said it wasn't that she didn't want to drive it, or, for that matter, that Dad didn't want her to drive it, but because it was Dad's and there were very few things that he could call his own. This would always be one of them.

Like I said, Lynette didn't think the same as Mom. The day she creamed it, all she was going to do was zip around the corner for some cigarettes. Five minutes at the most. Maybe ten. Until that point, Dad had nicely refused her. Yeah, she had her own car with her, but she just really wanted to give it a try. Please, please, please?

I saw Dad's face twitch with doubt. “Alright,” he finally said in this tired voice he uses with me sometimes.

I wanted to jump in and stop her. Dad's look told me: don't. So while we watched her kid race round and round and round the table, she backed out of the garage and took off down the road with a familiar buzz.

The call came half an hour later. The pickup
truck hadn't seen her. The passenger's side was crushed and the front axle broken. I thought Dad might cry on the spot. He didn't, but went to get her, while I told her hyper kid to sit.

“I don't have to do what you say. You're not my mom!”

“Maybe not,” I said, and I waved a threatening finger, “but you move and you're dead.”

Okay, a little harsh, I admit. But I was truly fed up.

After all Dad's been through, he probably could have handled it. But it was her attitude that sucked. She didn't have the least bit of guilt.

He didn't say a word when he walked in the door. He went straight to the bathroom, while she paced back and forth, breathing hard, smoking a cigarette. Finally, Dad came out.

“You're mad at me,” she said.

“I am not mad at you,” he answered, in this very soft voice.

“Yes, you are. I can hear it in your voice. You're mad. Look, he didn't see me coming. What more do you want?”

Dad sat in a chair. I noticed it wasn't his favorite. He drummed his fingers impatiently against the arms. “I am not mad at you. I simply am a little shaken up.”

Lynette did not believe him. “Look. Could I
help it that he didn't see me? Could I help it that you drive a car no one can see?”

Dad, who was beginning to simmer, worked hard to hang back.

“Who in their right mind would want to drive a car that small!”

“You did!” Dad finally slammed back. That was it; now on his feet, he'd put up with enough.

The kid started screaming. I tried to control him, but the little creep bit me on the hand. Before I could stop him, he charged at Dad. He pounded on his legs. “Don't you yell at my mom! Don't touch her! Leave her alone, you jerk!”

Looking suddenly puzzled, Dad caught him by the arms. He looked at Lynette, then over at me. I stood rubbing my hand. This was all too foreign to him. We had never been a fighting family and I don't think he understood how quickly it had come to this. And to be honest, neither did I.

“I wasn't hurting her,” he said in this deadly calm voice. He led the kid to Lynette by the hand. “I think you should go.”

And she did.

Leaning with one arm against the door, Dad looked so broken I could hardly say I told you so. Instead, I started to snivel.

He put his arm around me. “It's okay, Pam. It was only a car. Let me take a look at your hand.”
So, here I sit at the dinner table. Dad made this massive pot of chili, a decent mango salad and, wearing his “I love to cook” apron, served it all with some soft, doughy bread. Necessity has turned him into a passable cook.

Jennifer Reid sits across from me, blowing daintily on her chili.
Phh
. She's wearing one of those technical suits. Powder blue, with the big white bow of her blouse wrenched around her neck in this sadistic knot. I feel like I'm strangling just looking at it. I pull at the neckline of my sweater.

“It is such a pleasure to meet you, Pam.”
Phh, Phh
. “And you're such a big girl. Your dad says you're fourteen.”
Phh, phh, phh
. “And when is your birthday?”

Big girl? My birthday? Oh, pleease, Ms. Reid, you're kidding, right? I mean, that was a joke. I look at Dad. Is she for real? Dad is smirking behind his serviette.

“November 15th.” Then I add, in this casual voice, “And when is yours?”

My question catches her off guard, so that she forgets to
phh
and burns her tongue. I smile at Dad. He scowls back.

“Oh, it's a month from today. June 26th.”

“And how old will you be?”

“Pamela — have another piece of bread.” Dad shoves the bread basket in my face. “And stuff it in your mouth.”

“No thanks, Dad.” I smile sweetly.

“Oh, that's alright, Ken. I'll be forty. Sort of a big one. You know, lordy, lordy, guess who's forty?” She kind of giggles.

She's real cool, Dad. Real cool. You picked a comedian. Lordy, lordy. Look who's forty. Kind of, like, it's all downhill from here ... one foot on the banana peel ...

“You mean, like, you're not getting older, you're just getting better?”

This time, Dad's look is accompanied with a firm foot applied to my shin under the table.

Hey! It's a lot better than what I was thinking.

Jennifer clears her throat. “Something like that.”

It's pretty quiet for a while. Just the sounds of
phh, phh
and spoons clanking and Jennifer's tidy little burp. Pat, pat with the napkin. “Do you like your teacher, Pamela?”

Teacher? You mean the one I present a polished apple to every morning? Or do you mean orator-slash-dance-meister Mr. Bartell? Or, there's Wally the Whiz, who can work through a quadratic equation in thirty seconds, yet can't think to remember to zip up his fly. Or Ms. Lazarenko, dubbed the round mound of sound, who leads the choir from a chair.

“I have more than one.”

“Of course.”

Dad pours another splash of wine. Careful, Dad, you might cause her embarrassment. She might loosen that tourniquet around her stiff white neck. Dad tries to introduce something we might actually be able to discuss.

“You might be interested in this, Jenn. Pamela likes to bead bracelets and belts and — “ Dad kind of looks to me for assistance. “What else, dear?” Because, as he suddenly realizes, he's never paid much attention to that kind of stuff. So as not to embarrass him, I kindly help out.

“I've done some blouses and purses — oh, and I beaded a cat collar once. For Nana Jean's Prince.”

Having done his part, Dad sits comfortably back. Until Jennifer Reid answers with an unenthusiastic, “Oh, isn't that swell.”

Swell? Swell?? What prehistoric language is that?!

Well, anyway, Dad tried. But it doesn't surprise me that that attempt fizzled out. I had her pegged for the non-handicraft type. We scrape the bottom of our bowls, once again to the tune of uneasy silence.

I now know why Jennifer Reid is sliding into her fortieth year unmarried. The woman is a major drip. A geek. Therein lies her problem.

After a while, Dad practically shouts, “Dessert?”

“What is it?” I ask.

“Tiramisu,” Dad cheerfully announces. “Jenn made it.”

Jennifer Reid does that silly giggle thing again, “I wish I had, Ken. But I have to fess up. I bought it.”

Like, no duh. Wait a minute. Fess up? I've got to get out of here in case that language is contagious.

“I think I'll pass,” I say, standing up.

Jennifer Reid gets this hurt sort of look, so Dad frowns at me.

“I've got homework. I've got to read half a book.” Which was not true. It was more like the entire book. Let's just say, I got a bit behind.

A little while later, just as I'm about to start chapter three, there is a knock at my door. Jennifer Reid comes in to apologize.

“For what?” I have to ask. “I was the one that didn't eat your dessert.”

“For asking you stupid questions.”

Well, okay, I couldn't argue with that. But I had considered the source. She then sits down on the end of my bed. “May I sit down?”

“Go ahead.” I mean, since you already are.

“You see, Pam — ”

I could tell this was big. Whatever was coming, was a definite problem.

“I'm not very good with kids. I mean — well,
I never was. The fact is, I had trouble talking to fourteen-year-olds when I was fourteen.”

Oh, really? Maybe because you said words like “swell” and “fess up.”

“Actually, I had very few friends. Well, that is, no friends. The other kids thought I was a little strange.”

“Why's that?” I ask. I mean, since she's doing the talking.

“Probably, my interests. They were so different from the norm. For one, I loved to work through problems.”

“Problems?”

“Yeah, math problems. I love numbers. There are so many things you can do with them. I could spend hour upon hour sitting in my room, solving puzzles with them. And I was good at it.”

And I could tell by her rising voice that she was. This was interesting. Jennifer Reid went on for a while longer about how lonely she sometimes got when she was a kid and how she thought she was the only one in the world that had such a weird interest and how that made her weird. So, I told her that's exactly the way I feel sometimes. You know, just to make her feel better. She asked me about my baby-food jars filled with dirt and stuff and asked to see what I had beaded. She looked very carefully at the patterns. This got her going about how much
fun it would be to figure them out. Then she asked if I would go shopping with her on Saturday.

“Your dad has invited me to have dinner with you at your Grandma Jean's on Sunday. It's important to me to look nice, Pam. I'm not very good at choosing clothes.”

Really? I'm shocked.

“I usually leave it to the saleswomen. Would you help me pick out something less conservative? Something, perhaps trendy?”

Well, trendy might be going overboard. Let's try for fashionable to start.

“Sure, Jenn,” I said. “If you like.”

Well, what could I say? Clearly, she's reaching out for help.

May 27th

It is after lunch and Joanne and Mandeep and I are standing around in the hallway. We are talking about the little girl who went missing yesterday in Lynn Canyon Park. Krissy Marshall was on a field trip with her grade two class Tuesday morning when, at some point, she disappeared. Her picture was on the news last night and in the newspaper this morning. A cute little girl, with curly blond hair and big blue eyes. She was last seen wearing blue jeans and a white blouse, and carrying a pink sweater. Like I
said previously, this is not the first time someone's gone missing on one of these mountains. An entire plane went down on Mount Seymour that wasn't found for fifty years.

Tony Lasserman and John Robbel are already making plans to search for her body after school. Mike Ortega figures a cougar probably got her, and it won't be a body they're after, but a few bones. Danny Kim says the vultures would have carried off anything the cougar didn't devour. They'll be lucky to find a scrap of her clothes. They've all got their theories, but I just feel ripped off. Because now Ninety Foot will be jammed with search-and-rescue teams and I won't have it to myself. Okay, that's morbidly selfish, I know.

Sarah McMurtry walks by us. She is trying to look casual on these major shoes. The heels are like mega-building blocks and nineteen miles high. She leans forward to balance on them. Joanne, who can't stand her, because Sarah can't stand me, because I cut her Barbie doll's hair, suggests I spin my pop can in front of her so we can watch her fall down. I give it some thought. It would be hysterically funny. But in the end, I decide it's not nice.